Fairytales
by namelesspanda
Summary: Modern AUs and fics with younger characters. Both are woven together here in a tale of teenage hormones, pride and stubbornness, early days of university, a deployment to Afghanistan, and a group of determined women united around a broken girl...or two. Not solely shippy. Multi-chapter.
1. Prologue

_A/N: Modern AU (I know, another one, but I hope you'll find this one interesting. It has a twist.)_ _Up first: a__ prologue crammed with anecdotes from the childhood and teenage years. Thanks to **JavaBean** for editing help. More to come later re: Matthew's deployment in a modern era._

* * *

**_Prologue._**

December 2004

The library is eerily calm and comforting, but Mary is anything but. "You've always told me I'd get it," she says, her head seeming to spin in dizzying pirouettes. Her father sets his mouth in a resolute line.

"It seems that…even though the school is co-educational, the merit scholarship is—well—not," Robert says. "I'm sorry, Mary. But there's just no way around it. You'll still be able to go, it isn't like we can't afford the tuition, but—"

"But the scholarship," she finishes. The anger is building quickly; she wants to stamp her foot on the ground and scream like she's two years old—even though she's almost thirteen. "My scholarship, it'll go to someone else."

Robert sighs. "Yes," he says. "I'm afraid it will."

"A boy." Mary is visibly fidgeting by now.

"Yes, a boy," Robert says wearily. "It seems like they already have one chosen."

This is the wrong thing to say at that moment. Mary's eyes burn straight through her father's, but her voice is ice-cold. "So they've already chosen my replacement."

"Don't put it like that," Robert says. He takes a swig of brandy to calm himself down—whenever Mary gets like this, it stresses out everyone in the room.

"So I'm replaceable." She stands there, shaking silently in anger, as Robert glugs more alcohol. "I'm bloody replaceable because I'm a _girl!_"

"This isn't my decision, my dear," he says. "If it were, I'd—"

"You aren't going to fight it?" If she'd been steaming mad before, now she's searing enough to melt metal.

"I can't," he replies. He's tired, it's been a long day of work and calls and he just wants to collapse on the floor. "I'm not on the scholarship committee, so I can't influence them to—"

"But you're the Earl of Grantham!" She's almost shouting, and Robert's slumbering yellow Labrador opens one eye in curiosity.

"A meaningless title these days," Robert says, shaking his head. "I'm so sorry, but there isn't anything we can do."

"Argh!" Mary slams her foot into the door before storming off in a fit of pre-teen angst. "Who knew? Sexism is still rampant!" she yells, loud enough for the whole wide world to hear.

* * *

June 2005

She hasn't even met him yet, and she wants to throw him over the edge of her family's box so that he lands in the middle of the All-England Club's Centre Court and humiliates himself on international telly.

The crowd cheers as Andy Murray walks onto the court, but she just pulls her simple white hat further in front of her face and watches disdainfully. Mary knows that her face is pinched, but honestly—who is going to _care_?

"Mary!" her mother scolds in a voice that can't quite be called a whisper. "Stand up, they're here."

Mary doesn't mean to roll her eyes—but it happens anyway. Cora grits her teeth and shoves her daughter forward. _Damn it, I'm thirteen, Mama!_ she thinks indignantly, but presses her lips into a smile that she knows is positively ghastly. How can she be expected to face the boy from Manchester who took away _her_ merit scholarship?

Papa _and_ Grand-papa had it, after all. So had plenty of other men. And that's just the problem, she thinks as her mother makes introductions.

Mary doesn't pay attention to the strangers, of course. Papa really shouldn't invite him here…he isn't the usual Viscount Tiddly-Push who gets the scholarship and therefore isn't likely to appreciate Wimbledon. And the other recipients didn't _take_ the scholarship from her. This one has.

"Mary," Cora whispers, her eyes more furious than Sybil's (the youngest Crawley is on her feet, shrieking insults that will never reach the umpire's ears).

"Pleasure to meet you," Mary says with more sarcasm than is probably appropriate as she glares at the strange boy. A frazzled-looking woman (his mother?) gives him an encouraging pat on the shoulder._ Mother's boy,_ she thinks, and has to suppress another eye roll.

"Matthew Crawley," he says quietly, hands in his pockets.

He looks positively ridiculous, she thinks disdainfully. Khaki trousers, blue shirt—boring. It's then that he looks up at her, and she sniffs in the loftiest way she can manage.

If only his eyes weren't so…sincere. Then it might be easier to despise him. "You'll soon get used to the way things are done here," she says, with a composure that she knows will unnerve him. The words could be mistaken for slightly awkward well-meaning ones…but as she raises her chin, they all know that she _definitely_ doesn't mean to be welcoming.

"I'm sure I will," Matthew replies. He shoots her a challenging look. "It can't be all that different from my _middle-class_ life."

"Of course it's different," she says scornfully as she pulls out her mobile phone to text Anna, ignoring her mother's glare. Below them, the umpire calls for silence.

* * *

September 2005

When _he _arrives, he instantly becomes the favorite of the classics professor, Mr. Thompson. It's horrid.

"Well?" says Thompson, peering through his bifocals at the class as pens scratch lazily in notebooks. "Anyone? The Andromeda story?"

"I've heard of it," says a voice that makes Mary's stomach turn in revulsion. "It's—"

Mary waves her hand in the air for the briefest instant before cutting him off. "The gods sent a sea monster that almost wrecked the kingdom, so they chained her naked to a rock, and—"

"Ms. Crawley!" barks Thompson. "Let him speak."

She huffs indignantly and slouches in her chair, not looking up as Matthew says, "Actually, I'm sure Mary knows it better than I do. They didn't teach us much about it in Manchester, you know."

Finally, she looks up. He's smiling at her, damn him. "But she was rescued," Mary says, irritated. "By Perseus. Rather more fitting, wouldn't you say?"

"I don't know." He's trying hard to suppress a laugh, and now she really wants to smack him. "Wouldn't it depend on the princess and the sea monster?"

Mary scowls. "Andromeda has to be rescued from the sea monster, doesn't she? Or else it isn't a fairytale ending. Which is the whole point of the myth."

"Sometimes fairytales are the worst stories," Matthew counters with what she perceives as an infuriating smirk.

"Are they?" she says, raising her eyebrows.

Thompson steps in. "_Thank you_," he says pointedly, and Mary slumps in her seat again. She's scrawling notes, pressing her pen so hard that the ink runs, when Anna nudges her.

"Look over there," Anna whispers. Mary follows her gaze.

"Ugh," she sighs in exasperation. How dare he try to pretend like they're friends when they so obviously aren't? He's trying to catch her eye now, and it's driving her mad. "He's a git. And he's surgically attached to his mother."

"He's nice enough."

A girl called Jeanine leans over and says in an overly interested hiss, "Who?"

Mary wishes the girl would just go away.

"Girls!" snaps Thompson. Both Anna and Mary look up guiltily, but Jeanine just picks at her fingernails. "Do you have anything to say about the Odyssey or shall I send you all to the headmaster?"

* * *

February 2008

The common room is completely deserted except for Mary and Anna, who have their heads bent over their Year 11 algebra books. Not a word is said until both put down their pencils at around midnight.

"Have you seen the new exchange student?" says Anna, yawning. "From Turkey?"

"Oh, him," Mary says. She tries not to giggle. "He's in the Upper Sixth."

"Tall, dark, and handsome," Anna sighs. "I think he's beautiful."

"He is."

"Everyone fancies him." Anna hugs her knees to her chest as a gust of wind hits the window. "_Everyone._ I don't think any of the guys are too happy about it."

"No, I don't think they are."

"I heard that Edith's developing quite the crush on Matthew Crawley," Anna says, a mischievous glint in her eye.

Mary pulls a face—Edith may be her sister (a year younger, Sybil's twin), but they certainly don't have much in common. Matthew is all right, she supposes—but she's still quite angry with him because of the scholarship, and rarely speaks to him. "Naturally."

"You aren't related to him, are you?" Anna asks.

"I hope not," she says loftily, "at least not closely. Or else Edith would be pining after our cousin, which is just _gross._"

Anna smiles. "You know, a hundred years ago, people _did_ marry their second cousins sometimes."

Mary feigns gagging, and maybe it's because they're tired, but they laugh until they're close to tears and in danger of waking up everyone in the dorm.

* * *

The next day, Kemal sees her in the hall and flashes her a quick smile that makes her stop in her tracks and come dangerously close to dropping all of her papers, but she raises an eyebrow and tries to walk past him.

"Are you ignoring me?" he asks, holding out his arm to block her path.

"Maybe I am." Her voice seems higher than it normally does. However popular Mary might be, Kemal is a full two years older—and, as Anna puts it, beautiful.

"I didn't know that you English could be so…rude," he says, his eyes darkly inscrutable.

"Not rude," Mary replies. "Just…indifferent."

"So you don't care?" God, his voice is so deep. She resists the urge to touch his shoulder.

"Not about everyone."

"Really." He takes her pen from her and scribbles something on the nearest piece of paper—she doesn't care if it happens to be the final page of her recently completed essay. "Well…"

Mary starts to look down, but he folds the note before she can see it. "Do you want me to read it, or what?" she teases.

"Definitely," Kemal murmurs, and her heart starts to pound out some sort of unnatural rhythm. People are watching, and half the school will have heard about their flirting by tomorrow.

"What is it?"

He just shakes his head and walks away.

She pays no attention to the disappointment in other people's eyes. It doesn't matter to her, there can be no one more desired and interesting and…amazing as Kemal, at least in her opinion.

Later, when Mary glances at the note, she sees that it's a number. His mobile.

* * *

Eventually, he appears at her window in the middle of the night and she knows it's so, _so_ wrong and foolish, but at the same time it's so flattering. She feels powerful, relishing the danger as they sneak away as though it's some sort of mission.

That is, until it's over. "You won't tell anyone," she whispers as Kemal turns to leave.

"If you won't, I won't," he says.

Mary nods, and then he's gone. She knows that there's less than an hour before she's in danger of being discovered in next to nothing, but she can't move. She's drained, and tired, and she just wants to curl up and stare at the wall for hours and not think about the horrible mistake she's just made. Why couldn't she have just snogged him, why wasn't that enough?

She thought she was ready. Now she knows she wasn't even close.

* * *

Mary skips class. She pretends to be ill, but then walks into the grounds and just sits on a bench for hours, staring at the trees. The barren branches wave at her, but she does not wave back. She knows that she has to break it off, _now._ Right now. Before everything spirals out of her control again. She feels utterly shameful, sordid and pitiable.

As dusk falls, she starts to wander back in the direction of the campus. Someone is carrying a large pile of old volumes out of the library, a cluster of girls are giggling, two guys are yelling at each other. It all seems so typical. How can everything be so normal when her life is this dreary?

"Mary?" someone calls, and she almost doesn't hear it. "Mary!"

Matthew falls into step beside her, carrying his books. He either doesn't notice or pretends not to see the despondent look on her face (probably the latter, as it's fairly obvious even in the dim light). "How are you?" he asks.

"Fine," she lies, and starts to walk faster.

"Good," he says awkwardly. "How is everything with Kemal?"

So he knows. She's ready to scream at him, demand how he knows, when she realizes that he can't possibly know _that_ and that the only thing that he could possibly be referring to is the relationship and not…_that._ "It's…we're not together anymore," she says.

It's almost like a new beginning.

Later, she tells Kemal in an e-mail. She doesn't want to talk to him again. Ever.

* * *

April 2010

It's been mere hours since Matthew punched two thugs who'd been threatening Sybil, and the shock of it's still stinging. It's dark now, but they're out on the bench that faces the grounds (even though they're technically not supposed to be there). It smells of grass and spring air and the faintest hint of blood.

"Are you all right?" Mary asks again. She can't see the ugly multicoloured patch on his right cheek because he's covering it with a small ice pack, but she knows it's there. And it's disconcerting.

"I'm fine," he mutters, still a little ashamed that she of all people is asking about it. He's basically a grown man (eighteen now), for God's sake, he'll be fine.

"You sure?" She hasn't spoken this quietly in years. Quite literally.

"Just doing my duty."

"You're hardly a creature of duty," Mary says, with a wry smile.

"I can be," he argues. "Occasionally. When I have to be. Isn't it enough that I punched a man for your sister?"

She watches him carefully. _Her_ sister. It could be incidental, of course, but…

They each think it's the other that reaches out, but suddenly their hands are locked in a gentle grip and they're both pretending to stare at the moon. The little bag of ice falls to the ground. And moments after that—well, it's his first kiss. Not hers, but that doesn't matter. It's all perfect—the shimmering light, the faint smell of his aftershave blending with the scent of fresh grass…until he asks her to be his (first) girlfriend.

She tells him she'll think about it.

* * *

The very next day, Kemal Pamuk returns to teach a short class on the history of Turkey. He's in university now, an intern for the last six weeks of the year. Mary avoids him.

* * *

June 2010

"What do you mean?" she demands, whirling on Matthew. Her hair's still swept up for the commencement, but it's falling out now…it's been weeks, _weeks_ since he's asked her and she still hesitates. "In what way am I unreasonable?"

"You aren't," he says weakly, shifting uncomfortably in his cap and gown as the tree branches rustle over their heads, producing the gentle scent of leaves.

She shakes her head in disbelief. "You want me to tell everyone that we're…in a relationship, at least give me some time, especially right before we're off to university," she spits. "My family? You have to be joking, they're horrible. And you want me to go home and tell them about us?"

"Isn't that…" He trails off, hurt.

"Oh, it's exactly what they want, they couldn't stop raving when they met you after you got the scholarship." She tries not to scoff, but she can't help it—she's still angry about that damn rule. "Next thing you know, they'll be playing the wedding march whenever we walk into the room. Mama will call us 'high school sweethearts' and Papa will have us followed to make sure we don't—"

"So what if they do?" he says suddenly. "That doesn't matter, that's not—"

"Of course it matters. And I want them to be happy, it's just that I don't want a wedding!"

"It's not like we're getting married," he reminds her, his eyes disbelieving.

"Not yet," she says ominously. "But just you wait. It'll happen."

"We're hardly of age and we haven't—" he starts to say, but she cuts him off.

"Obviously."

"We can't keep this up," he says, shoes crumpling the tired grass over and over, in the same pattern. "Either—you're willing or you aren't. Or are you too ashamed? Of my pathetic middle-class background, now that I don't even have the family's scholarship anymore since we're going to university?"

"No!" But she provides no further denial.

"But why else would you hesitate?" And then her worst fear is coming true, he's starting to panic. "Is it Kemal?"

"I broke it off two years ago," she protests.

"He came back, though." He's frowning now. "And now that he's gone again, I'm your second choice—"

She can't very well explain why she'd never be able to face Kemal again, because Matthew doesn't _know_ what happened when they were sixteen. Part of her wants to just tell him, but he's so moral and…pure that he'd be appalled. He'd never see her the same way again.

There's a long pause. "Never mind, then," he says, biting his lip.

"Matthew—"

The sunlight burns into his scalp and his face is red—he hopes to God she doesn't think it's out of anger. "I have to go," Matthew says quietly. He pauses after a few steps and turns back for half of a second. "Oh—good luck next year, Mary."

"But—" She gives up right then and there. It's hopeless. Her life angers her. He angers her. But of course, she probably won't ever see him again, so at least that's out of the way.

Yet somehow she cries that night. She hates hormones.

* * *

October 2011

Mary Crawley is the pride and joy of the university—she's an earl's daughter with nothing to show for her work and a devoted posse of girls who follow her _everywhere_. But Lavinia thinks she's not quite as bad as the gossip says (it isn't possible for a girl who's close friends with Anna Smith to be that nasty, is it?).

According to the gossip, Mary was supposed to get the coveted Grantham merit scholarship to some posh boarding school. Instead, it went to a boy from Manchester.

Speaking of the boy from Manchester—he's standing next to her, looking at her, waiting. She nods happily. "See you Friday."

* * *

_Hope you enjoyed it! (At least somewhat. :) I'd really appreciate it if you would review...contrasting this with my previous stories would be most welcome. Thanks for reading._


	2. Chapter 1: Deployed

_A/N: In this chapter...well, here comes the twist. It's only a twist because it hasn't been covered much on the site, at least in a modern setting. I do believe there is at least one one-shot that deals with a similar concept, but this story has several chapters still to come. Anyway, enjoy. Thanks for reading! And, as always, I'd love to know what you think._**  
**

**Chapter One: Deployed**

October 2011

Mary picks up the plate of salad, noting with distaste that somehow her nails have become chipped. She'll have to get Anna to redo them for her later, back at the flat. From across the vast room, through the salty smell of awful food, she can feel bright blue eyes watching her (why the hell is he here, of all places?) She tries to ignore it—it's her weekly sisterly (plus Anna) dinner, so she can't think about that now. Not when her sisters are so perceptive, and if Anna were halfway around the world in some prison cell she'd know instantly that something was wrong anyway.

"Evelyn Napier's looking at you," Sybil whispers to Edith, grabbing an energy bar and a bottle of water. "Don't look now!"

"Really, Edith," Mary says nastily, "you aren't seriously thinking about _him_, are you?"

"Just because he dumped you—" Edith begins, her eyes widening at the insult.

"Last time I looked, you're the only one of us who's desperate enough," Mary retorts under her breath.

Sybil doesn't hear this (she's learned to ignore their vicious bickering, she's never understood it). "Is that Matthew?" she squeals. "He's back, Mary!"

"Yes, I think we all heard the ravings—he's in a _training_ program, it isn't like he's actually in battle or anything," she says, dismissing it as best she can with a wave of her hand.

"You have to admit it's interesting, though," Anna says quietly, as she waits for her coffee. "Him wanting to serve Queen and country. Signing up on his own."

Mary doesn't answer. She thinks it's plain _stupid, _personally, but she means nothing in all this.

With that thought, she finally looks over to the corner booth. She shrugs almost instinctively when she sees them (at least they aren't snogging in public or anything). It's taken him long enough—it's been over a year since she turned him down just before they went to university, and she's already gone out with both Evelyn Napier _and_ Anthony Strallan. It seems as if she's living with the ghosts of her past, though…she's never quite forgotten Kemal, and she's heard he has started working at the Turkish Embassy, though she's never talked to him.

And then there's Matthew.

Even though she's trained herself not to think about that, him, them, _ever,_ a little fire bursts into her head and there's a scorching behind her eyes as the pain reappears. She tries to visualize a stream of water to extinguish it, but now she just has to pee.

The redheaded girl, who she recognizes as one of Edith's friends, gives a giggle, and suddenly it's not quite so easy to brush off.

If he wants a contest, he'll get exactly that. Mary drops her salad fork and marches straight over in the direction of Dick Carlisle (okay, so maybe he's a bit like what his name suggests, but that isn't the point), but Sybil rushes after her. "Mary—look! It's _Tom,_" she says, a little too enthusiastically for Mary's taste.

"Tom Bellasis?" The older Crawley frowns.

"_Branson,_" Sybil says, her eyebrows furrowing.

"Don't tell me you're still pining after him," Mary scoffs.

"We're just friends, how many times to I have to tell you"—Mary rolls her eyes at this—"but…he's over _there,_" says Sybil, and nods to the part-time cabbie. He waves, but heads straight for the one table where Mary does _not_ want to sit. She turns away from Sybil, but her sister tugs her arm.

"I'm not going to—" she begins in exasperation.

"I can't just walk up to him alone!" Sybil protests.

"Well, then don't. Or get Edith to go with you, I'm sure she'd be more than happy to. It's her friend over there, isn't it?"

Sybil glares at her. "Please?"

"No."

"You're coming anyway," Sybil proclaims. She has a vast advantage over her sister in that she's wearing perfectly comfortable shoes, whereas Mary's are likely to cause a broken ankle and a _very_ unattractive wince of pain. "Come on!"

"Why—" Mary stops as she almost trips over a dropped plate of food. "Really, you're so immature."

"Don't tell me you're trying to avoid Matthew," Sybil says in a near whisper.

"Of course not!" Mary exclaims defensively.

"Good," Sybil mutters. "Now—come."

Since she _isn't_ trying to ignore him, Mary steps forward looking quite like she's going into battle.

It's only when they get to the booth that Sybil relinquishes her grip on Mary's arm.

"Hello, Tom," she says carelessly, her blue eyes glowing.

He smiles. "Are you here to get a ride to the hospital again?"

Mary bestows a small snarl upon him before turning to _her_. "I don't believe we've met," she says politely. "I'm Mary Crawley."

"Of course you are! I've been dying to meet you because I've heard so much about you from Matthew," says the little…well, she's not quite _that_, but in Mary's mind she is. Frozen smiles all around, as the awkwardness reaches the ears of Sybil and Tom and they stop flirting (oh, please, it _is_ flirting) to stare. "Er—"

"Good things, I hope," she replies, and now she's the overenthusiastic one, her fragile smile almost at its breaking point.

"What else would she hear from me?" Matthew says—the first words she's heard from him since that June day just after they'd finished the sixth form. He makes it sound so obvious, but it shouldn't be, she realizes guiltily.

It all seems so petty now, stupid adolescents who fall out over something so clichéd—she swears it's the plot of one of those awful novels she read when she was fourteen.

She gives him her best smile and grits the words out from between her teeth. "I can't say. It's been such a long time." Sybil's mouth falls open, and her eyes are wide. This is _not_ good, Mary thinks as more words spill from her mouth as helplessly as a pathetic animal's cry. "Who knows what you think of me now?"

Damn, she didn't mean for it to sound like _that,_ she thinks as Edith walks up.

"Hi," says the middle Crawley sister, with a wave of her hand.

Matthew doesn't even register the presence of Edith. "Er…what else would she hear from me?" he repeats, shrinking into the seat a little.

Lavinia's hand, adorned with quickly chipping pink nail polish, grips her coffee cup a little more tightly than necessary. She's wilting—quite literally, she resembles a wounded flower.

"Other things, maybe?" Edith says, taking pity on her friend.

Mary gives her a withering look. How dare she? She's her sister, for God's sake, whose side is she on? "What other things?" she says, trying to keep her voice indifferent.

"I don't know," Edith replies, a suspicious frown spreading rapidly over her face.

"Good things," Matthew clarifies.

"Glad to hear it," she says, a tinge of sarcasm seeping into her tone as she tries not to look at him. She can tell that he, too, is looking down.

Someday, maybe, they'll be able to pretend it…they…never happened. Today is not that day.

* * *

That night, another spectre from the past returns to haunt her and she's not sure why. It's rare that her dreams are nothing more than memories, but this time her mind must not be up for creating any implausible tales.

_It's the late in the morning after, and all of the girls have gone off to class while she's pretended to be ill (and actually, she's partially sick anyway). She carries her usual overpriced soaps and shampoos into the showers with her for the sake of decorum, but as soon as the scalding water rains down over her head she reaches for the caustic bottle of cleanser that always sits, unused, in the corner of the small chamber. And she starts to scrub away at herself, being rougher with herself than Kemal was. Which is kind of saying something given the little red marks on her chest where he'd clutched at her (clawed, really). _

_Her nails scrabble first over her face, working the astringent soap into a layer of frothy foam. She even swipes a bit of it into her mouth for good measure, and the bitterness of it tastes oddly purifying. As the mouthful of spit and soap washes away down the drain, she moves briskly to scouring the rest of her, moving a little more gingerly when she reaches the sore parts. A trace of blood swirls along the tiled floor, but a cascade of steaming water carries it away in an instant. _

_She takes her time, washing herself five times over until she's finally satisfied that every last vestige of the incident is gone from her body. But no matter how much she scrubs the surface, she has a stinging feeling deep within that reminds her that this is far from superficial._

When she wakes up the next morning, she imprisons herself in the shower for a full half-hour, scouring her skin, even though it's been over three years and every trace of him has long since left her body.

* * *

November 2011

"_What?_"

Well-mannered ladies do not shriek into the telephone. She doesn't care. This is drastic.

"_What do you mean he's being deployed?_" she yells. "_Sybil Crawley, get your arse over here right now and explain."_

After that she can't really hear her sister's voice. It's gibberish that's meant to be reassuring…but isn't.

He's leaving. He's leaving university and entering the world of dirt and dust, guns and bombs and—terrorists. Afghanistan.

Deployed.

It's a word she hears most frequently in films. And in those cases they usually relate to weapons and whoever is saying it looks completely ridiculous. _Missiles deployed. Airbags deployed._

And now he's going. "When's he leaving?" she barks into the phone, and suddenly all is eerily quiet. "For how long?"

"Three weeks from now, for eleven months," Sybil admits. She can hear the static and it's utterly painful. "Look, I'll come right over. I'm not far, and I can get a cab. Is Anna there?"

Mary shakes her head before she remembers—Sybil can't see. "She's gone home to Yorks," she says numbly, and jabs the little red icon on the screen.

And then she's alone.

Well, not for long. Sybil bursts through the door carrying a bottle of potent, strong-smelling alcohol, and basically shoves it into her sister's hands.

"How did you find out?" Mary glares at Sybil. How the hell did her sister know before she did?

"Tom," Sybil says almost sheepishly. "I don't know how he knew, I called you as soon as I heard."

"Of course he heard," Mary mutters, and with that she takes a tentative sip (it tastes like hand sanitizer). The liquid burns, but the pain is welcome—frankly, she's disappointed in the government, sending _him_ off. Don't they know how gentle of a person he is?

Sybil sees her sister take a deep breath, and snatches the bottle from her hands. "Save it," she instructs, plunking herself down on the couch in front of the telly. "Look, we're going to forget this ever happened and watch the cattiest, stupidest show we can find."

Mary starts to nod, but her phone shudders loudly. She clicks it off, knowing it's from one of those pathetic friendless girls who wear too much makeup and _always_ try to text her and suddenly it isn't flattering anymore—it's just irritating.

"Got any biscuits?" Sybil asks as the telly lights up. Mary doesn't answer, just looks blankly at the screen, feeling the sleepy depression take over. It's a _Sherlock_ repeat…and there are hallucinatory horrors, screaming men, a severed leg, hazy and dusty air—

Sybil changes the channel before they have to endure the appearance of a despondent, shell-shocked John Watson. But it's too late…

Katy Perry's getting divorced. Mary doesn't care. A wealthy banker got caught in bed with a prostitute. She couldn't give a damn.

It's the soap opera that really gets to her. Sobbing American blonde wailing about her soldier boyfriend and how he can't tell her where he is. Sybil pretends not to see the tears, just clicks another button and selects an episode of the X Factor. By the final audition, Mary is staring at the screen without seeing. Or listening. Even without drinking, she's painfully silent and morose.

"His stupid little girlfriend's probably having a breakdown," she finally mutters.

"Did you and he ever—" begins the younger.

"God, no," Mary says. "He's too Christian and all that. Too moral, or immoral, or something. And we never even went out, remember? Too serious for me."

"I meant," Sybil says, trying to exude patience, "did you two ever talk, after…you graduated?"

"No…the first time I saw him was a couple weeks ago. You forced me," she says, waving her finger accusingly.

"Right." She gives an audible sigh, and immediately feels a little guilty. It's not like Tom is off to Afghanistan.

It's silent for a moment before Mary gasps, "Oh, God, I think I'm going to be sick," and runs for the toilet.

Jesus, she hardly even touched the alcohol, Sybil thinks.

It's at that moment that they both realize. She won't be able to put this behind her and move on with her life as if nothing has happened. Because everything has changed.

* * *

Lavinia hums in an ostensibly content manner as she brushes out her hair, trying to decide if she should put the green headband on or not. Just then, someone buzzes at the door. Determined to keep everything just the same as it was yesterday, before he got the letter, she runs her fingers through her hair one last time to make sure it looks presentable and then slips her feet into her shoes.

She opens the door. "Hello," she says cautiously. Matthew just stands there dumbly for a moment. "I'm sorry," she offers. Her eyes are softer than a plush teddy bear's.

"Don't be sorry!" he says, louder than necessary. She flinches, but he keeps going. "I know what I signed up for and why...don't think this is your fault. Please."

Lavinia blinks, but changes the subject. "Where should we go?"

"I don't care, you choose," he mutters. "Wherever you want."

She knows she's in for the most awkward date of all time. And it is. He barely talks, she's tired of coming up with dull conversation, and even the cabbie seems to notice the ghastly silence that passes between them.

Which is why she's surprised when the cab drops them off in front of her building and he pulls out a ring.

"I know it's only been a few weeks," he says, his voice uncertain, "and I'm not asking for marriage or anything. Just a promise. Until I get back."

An elderly woman passing by stops dead and claps her hand over her mouth. Another starts weeping openly. Matthew doesn't notice; he's shuffling his feet and looking at the ground.

Lavinia puts it on her ring finger anyway, even though it's doesn't mean _that_. "Of course," she whispers.

As they both lean in, breaths held as they pause mere centimetres apart, the elderly ladies give identical coos. This barely registers with them—all that she can think of the lock of flaxen hair that has flopped into his eyes as his face tilts down toward hers, and the only thing he notices is her. When they kiss, her first thought is that it's softer than butter.

It's the perfect picture of young love—one of the women almost faints out of enchantment.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he mumbles finally, turning away without meeting her gaze.

Lavinia can't help but let a small smile spread through her. This happiness comes more naturally than breathing.

As soon as he's out of sight, she holds her hand up to the lamp and eyes it. It's nothing special, just a plain gold band with a little blue stone on top of it, but it means…_them._ She lets out a satisfied sigh.

* * *

Sybil is up at five o'clock and tries to make coffee using Mary's ridiculously complicated espresso brewer. She _thinks_ that she hasn't broken it, and that will just have to be good enough.

She sits on the couch, sipping her bitter-smelling black coffee and reviewing for biology, waiting for her sister to wake up. By ten-thirty, she's had enough.

"Mary!" she shouts, channeling their mother. "Get up. Now."

No response. She grabs a pillow and swats Mary with it repeatedly. "Come on," she says gently. "You can't fake being asleep much longer."

Again, no response. "I'm going to start blasting awful music in your ears until you get up."

She knows her sister's in trouble, because this threat _really_ ought to work. Instead, Mary lies there without moving. Or even seeming to breathe.

"Carrie Underwood's coming on tour here soon, you know. The American singer," she says. Nothing. This is bloody _unbelievable_, quite literally. "You sleep. I'm making more coffee."

* * *

Edith gets the text at six-thirty the next morning, just as she's starting to re-watch the finale of _Sherlock_. It's a ring that is best described as pretty—mundanely attractive, but definitely not beautiful.

Part of her is viciously triumphant about this—she's always seemed to live in Mary's shadow, and she's glad that _someone_ has a small victory over her sister. Except now she's starting to question whether her loyalties should lie within her family. After all, while Lavinia may be a nice girl, she's just a friend.

But God, Mary's never acted like she's her sister. They've been positively venomous to each other since before Edith can remember, and she's constantly been outshined in everything except schoolwork.

"_Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain."_ Andrew Scott's version of Moriarty gives her an eerily simpering smirk, and she slams the laptop shut.

She's torn. She doesn't know who to support. She doesn't have a clue as to which one of them should get the guy—maybe it's neither of them. She just doesn't understand what the hell she's supposed to do.

And then she remembers Mary's pretentious brush-off of Matthew's enlistment in the army. Sometimes she wonders if her sister is even human. Maybe she's an alien species.

Her fingers shaking, Edith types out a short text to almost all of her contacts. And presses send.


	3. Chapter 2: Empty

_A/N: Thank you all so much for the reviews! I replied to the ones that I could, but the anonymous comments are equally appreciated. _

_In this chapter: twin dogs, a goodbye, and a glimpse of the desert._

* * *

**Chapter Two: Empty**

November 2011

"Just these, please," Mary says as she slams the pile of books down on the counter. The librarian gives her a vindictive glare as she sifts through them, but Mary just smiles pleasantly.

When she gets back to the flat, the first few blurry pages of the book make her stomach squirm uncomfortably (it seems that she has no control over it since she heard about the deployment), and it feels as though a large boulder is pounding her head as she squints to make out the words. She thinks it's partly due to the fact that she vomited herself into dehydration last night (even without a significant amount of alcohol to aid her), but she's determined. Actually, she makes it most of the way through one of the books before she reads: "There was a knee. There was an arm and a gold wristwatch and part of a boot. There were bubbles where his head should have been. The wristwatch gave off a green phosphorescent shine as it slipped beneath the thick waters."*

There have been just under four hundred deaths in the British Army in Afghanistan to date. Damn it, this book isn't even about _this_ war, it's about Americans in Vietnam, but she knows that could be him slipping away. She wants to throw up again.

Keys rattle as Anna pushes the door open. "Did you get my call?" she asks. "I heard about the deployment, I'm so sorry."

"I'm _fine,_" Mary snaps, but her face is very clearly green by now.

Anna rummages in her purse, pulling out a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. "You might want to try some of that," she suggests kindly, obviously concerned.

Mary shakes her head. "I'll be all right. How was it at home?"

"Normal. Usual." Anna looks at her quizzically, almost like she's eyeing a mutated specimen. "If you want to talk—"

"I don't."

"Honesty's the best policy," Anna tries, but just then her mobile phone goes off.

"Answer it," Mary says. She pulls out her book again.

Anna glances down at the screen and her face goes ashen, a muttered curse slipping from her before she can stop it. Mary looks up—this is unusual coming from the mild-mannered, sterile-mouthed Anna who has probably never uttered a worse word in her life.

"What is it?"

Anna doesn't answer, just drops her phone onto the table and goes to pull out the teakettle. Nothing like a good cup of tea.

"Anna!"

"It's…nothing," she mumbles as she reaches for two cups that are sitting on a high shelf. "Mint or black?"

"What's happened?" Mary narrows her eyes and snatches up the phone. It's a text that's been forwarded at least five times.

"Don't!" Anna says sharply, and then a spoon is clattering on the floor, and Mary's fighting tears and vomit, and the phone splits in two as it smashes into the wall, and where is the Pepto-Bismol and Anna's kneeling on the ground trying to salvage her mobile and Mary clutches her knees to her chest, fuming, trying and failing to quell the flame of jealousy.

She has a terrible desire to rip that stupid little ring off of Lavinia's finger and stamp on it while wearing her highest-heeled shoes, then shove it into a smoldering stool and leave it on her doorstep.

Her rational mind tells her to be happy for them.

They're engaged.

* * *

Sybil comes back and basically shoves the English history textbook up her sister's nose. "Study," she commands.

Mary just stares at her in utter consternation. Tonight she's gulping Anna's Pepto-Bismol as though her life depends on it.

"It's been a day," Sybil says and tosses the book aside. "Feeling any better?"

Mary shakes her head wordlessly and takes a swig of pink, over-sweet liquid.

"I'm sure it's just a rumour," says Anna, placing her unfixed mobile phone on the table in resignation. "It doesn't look much like an engagement ring."

"Maybe they're lying," Sybil says more boldly, her eyes flashing. "There's no proof that it's Lavinia's hand after all. Even it is, it might not be his ring."

"Sybil's right." Anna nods enthusiastically. "It could be anything."

"Can you tell who the text came from originally?" Mary says, her voice cracking.

Anna fiddles uselessly with the memory chip. "It's broken, and I don't think I can fix it. I could ask someone else—"

"No." The mere thought of asking around infuriates her. There's no rational reason why she has to appear so desperate.

Later that night she sends him a congratulatory text. It's one word long and adorned with a smiley face: _Congratulations!_

She receives no reply.

* * *

December 2011

Mary's been sewing something all week. Anna has no idea what it is, but she keeps her mouth shut. Overall, her friend has been getting better, happier…

But somehow Mary just seems emptier now. It's probably a temporary side effect of Matthew being deployed and engaged and all that, so it'll go away eventually…

…she hopes.

There's a shriek of pain from the neighboring room and Anna calls, "Mary?"

"It's—nothing," she manages to say as she yanks the needle out of her finger and stabs it furiously into the pincushion. "_Nothing._"

Anna frowns dubiously and pushes open the door, noticing something small vanish under the desk as she steps into the room. "What's happened?"

"Get out!" Mary waves her away. "It's nothing, nothing at all."

She's breathing hard and fast by the time the door clicks shut again. The two small dogs—twins, but one's black and one's white—stare up at her from their hiding place. She scowls back and picks up the needle again.

* * *

It's frigid. And dark. The guard gives her a solemn glance of sympathy as she exits the car and walks forward to the sea of muddy green. She doesn't feel like she deserves that pity, but she takes it anyway.

The tarmac is loud. The rough gravel crunches under her feet as she strides forward into the crowd of soldiers, most with a sobbing girl on their shoulder. She hopes to God that Lavinia isn't one of them, but that's silly, because of course she is. Mary knows she has no place here, that she has no right to cry, and is just about to turn back in resignation when a familiar voice calls out, "Mary?"

"I—I'm so glad I caught you," she says sheepishly, taking in the sight of him in khaki. It feels like a dream. But it's not, his uniform and the semi-automatic weapon slung over his back say otherwise. Matthew and guns don't belong together; he looks like a little boy next to most of these men with their gruff faces. But he holds himself like he belongs, and that's what almost breaks her. "Where's Lavinia?"

"She couldn't come, she has an exam tomorrow morning," he says. His voice is curt with the effort of trying to mask the slight tremor. She wants to strangle Lavinia at that moment, for being concerned about such stupid things as _exams._ He could be injured, or worse…what does that girl expect him to do? Waltz off to war without a proper goodbye, all alone?

"And your mother?"

"Emergency surgery," he explains, and there's a look in his eyes that seems partly defensive.

Mary doesn't question it—Isobel Crawley's life is always crammed with surgeries and resuscitations, it's pretty much a universally known fact to anyone who has met the woman. But Lavinia—she's his _fiancée_, for God's sake. Although she knows she is in no position to judge, she resents the fact that Lavinia couldn't be bothered to come.

They both stand there silently for a moment, looking everywhere but at one another. At the crying mothers, the soldiers trying to be stoic, at the engines roaring to life, at the hint of sun appearing on the horizon.

Finally, Matthew clears his throat. "Now's a good of a time as any," he says, and she can feel her pulse quicken. In anticipation of what, she doesn't know. "I think it's time we made our peace. It's been long enough, and God knows if I'll make it back, or—"

"Of course you will!" she says with a false-bright smile. The wind stops blowing in her face and starts pushing her from the back, and she swears it's trying to urge her on. "You'll come back, and you'll…marry, and have a family, and—"

"No_, if I don't_," he insists, and she feels shaky. He _has_ to come back.

"But—"

"Either way, I want us to part as friends," Matthew says. His eyes are wide with sincerity, much the same as they were that night when Sybil lay passed out in the infirmary and they'd—

"All right, you win." Mary tries to smile again, but it starts to morph into a grimace and she quickly wipes it from her face. "We are at peace again…but you _will_ come back." _Now_, she tells herself, but her fingers fumble with the clasp of the clutch and it almost falls onto the concrete. Still she pushes forward. "I want to give you this," she announces, and holds out the little stuffed white dog. "For luck. I've—been reading, and they say that these charms are—well, it isn't much, but—"

"Won't you need it?" he asks, clearly for lack of anything else to say. She doesn't care, he _has_ to take it. Even if he doesn't want it.

"Not as much as you." And then the unimaginable nightmares are there again, and she glances up at him nervously. He can't be leaving, can he?

But he can. As he gently turns it over in his hand, a man yells, "It's time!"

Last-minute embraces, desperate kisses. Tears. At least the others have the right to cry—she doesn't, however much she might need to, and she barely manages to hold in a sob.

"And Mary—" _Please, please,_ she wants to say. _Don't leave_. But he continues. "I'm very glad, I am…that we made up. While we had the chance."

Before she can convince herself not to, she reaches out and wraps her arms around him (as friends, she tells herself). The industrial smell of new khaki blends with the same aftershave he started to wear when they were still working towards their A-levels, and she presses her fingers into the rough fabric of his uniform. "Stay safe," she says. "And…I'm glad too."

"Goodbye, Mary," he says with a little too much force, as though he's fighting back tears in the same way that she is—but he shows nothing more than a grateful smile and his wide eyes, which she thinks are frightened just a little bit, somewhere deep down. "Good luck to you."

She's reminded of their last goodbye. _Good luck at university,_ he'd said. Not much has changed for her in the year since, but for him—going to war is entirely different from going to school.

And then he's gone, marching down the tarmac towards the mud-colored plane that will carry them away.

She waves, smiling, until she's sure he's in the airplane and even more sure that he can't see her. The gusts of wind act like one of those automatic hand dryers that she hates, drying up her tears as they come. She _has_ to be strong. It's a painful few minutes of standing there, with her right arm aching. She determinedly keeps it in the simple agony of waving back and forth until the plane rumbles away and takes off into the sky with an unbearably loud roar. It's still dark, so it isn't long before the little flashing tail-light vanishes and the entire crowd seems to sob as one. Mary clamps her hand over her mouth, but it does little to stop the sad whimper from escaping.

As the cloud of fuel dissipates, a chill runs up her, from her chest to her face, through her arms and down all the way to her feet. She didn't realize how harsh the pain would be, not until it's actually there and slapping her across the face, stinging, and she has to sniff to keep her nose from spewing out a disgusting mess of snot.

Her face crumples horribly as she pulls out the little black dog. The night is empty now, he's gone—gone—and she didn't really know how much he meant to her until now.

An old man starts to sing, off-key: "_O Lord our God arise, scatter her enemies, and make them fall."_ There aren't many people left in the crowd who still have their voices, but they take up the familiar tune—Mary is not one of them.

"_Confound their politics, frustrate their knavish tricks, on Thee our hopes we fix…God save us all."_

As the sunlight sneaks up over the horizon, a hush passes over the tarmac, save the occasional sniffling from a few particularly broken women. "God save us all," Mary murmurs to herself, as she looks up once last time at the place where the plane disappeared. Then she turns on her heel.

She has letters to write, even though she probably hasn't mailed a note on paper since she was ten and wrote to thank Aunt Rosamund for her pony, Diamond.

* * *

As soon as she walks into the flat, Anna abandons her breakfast and asks, "Where _were_ you?"

Mary ignores this, and keeps walking without saying a word.

"He left a few hours ago." Anna can somehow ask a question without a question mark. "What—"

"Nothing," Mary mutters, and slams the door behind her as she retreats into her room.

It turns out that writing letters is futile, even though everyone leaves her alone for once. She even stalls for time by looking up the right mailing address (if only the postal system could be simple), stamps the envelope, and then sits there for approximately half an hour with a blank piece of paper and a pen. E-mails are spotty, she's heard, and she's also determined to be genuine—it's too easy to fake a smile in an email by tacking on an emoticon.

She has to throw out the first sheet of paper because she strongly suspects that she let a tear fall onto it, and even though she can't tell where it is—well, _he_ might be able to, and that would be simply unacceptable.

"Mary?" Anna calls. "I'm leaving for class, I'll be back by four, all right?"

Right. Class. Sod that, she's not going to class, not today. "All right," she rasps, and hears the door click shut.

_Dear Matthew,_ she writes, and then she's stuck.

So she pulls out her computer and sends a cheerful little e-mail that is positively crammed with smiling emoticons, which he'll get as soon as he has an Internet connection—so not for a little while.

* * *

Lavinia walks out of her European history final knowing that she's failed.

The entire time, she'd only been able to think about the airplane that was carrying her boyfriend of two months. Every time she looked at the ring, her mind would go blank and she'd have to bring herself back to reality.

Her phone rings. It's a text from her best friend, Edith, asking if she's all right. _Thanks for asking,_ she types back. _But I'm fine._

That's a lie. She isn't fine, even though she's hardly known him for three months—she's going to stay loyal to him, no matter how hard it is, because she's a deeply moral person.

There's another chime from her mobile. She looks down. It's Edith again: _D__id you tell him?_

_No._ She drops her phone back into her bag and strides away from the building. She needs air.

* * *

They hardly give him two hours before sending him out into the field. "Just—just follow the others," the commanding officer barks to the new arrivals. "And...don't get yourselves killed."

And the rookies salute and march away, brandishing their weapons like shiny new toys that they haven't quite figured out yet.

They follow a lieutenant out into the arid desert, and form a cluster that is a little too conspicuous for a patrol—but all of them are too scared, too frightened to do the strategically correct thing and branch out.

Abandoned buildings are treacherous to clear. Loose pebbles in the ground make crackling sounds under their feet. He's absolutely parched, already out of breath, but doesn't dare lower his weapon to take a drink of water.

There is a movement in the corner of his eye, and the others see it too, training their guns on the hooded figure at their ten o'clock.

"Stand down!" yells the lieutenant, but it's too late. A spurt of gunfire erupts from the private standing next to Matthew, and the distant silhouette crumples to the ground. "I said, stand down!"

Boots scuffle in the dust as the troops advance slowly towards the prone figure, who is bleeding out into the road. As they draw nearer, the man coughs and a bubble of red fluid gurgles in his chest like some sort of morbid soup.

"He's a shepherd," the lieutenant says in disgust. "Stevens!"

"Y-yes, sir," says the peaked private, his shuddering hands almost ready to drop his gun.

"Don't let this happen again."

"N-no, sir."

"Wait until your superior tells you to shoot. Is that clear?"

The soldier's helmet bobs up and down feebly. "Sir."

Matthew wants to vomit. On the ground, the man is choking on his last breaths. "Sir!" he shouts. "Shouldn't we take him back to base and have him looked at, sir!"

But the lieutenant shakes his head. "He's gone, Crawley." And indeed, the man twitches one last time before growing still. "Come on, now."

His head is spinning. With fumbling fingers Matthew reaches into his pocket for the canteen, but instead finds something rather more soft. His first thought is pound cake, but there's no way that can be true, not in this hell. As they start to troop out of the village, he pulls it out curiously.

It's Mary's dog.

* * *

*_The passage quoted here is from Tim O'Brien's book __The Things They Carried__, which I do not own. No infringement intended._

_I'd really appreciate it if you left a review! :) Thanks for reading._


	4. Chapter 3: Christmas

_A/N: I'll spare you the rant about my personal life and just say this: Think of this chapter as a Christmas Special that is really, really angsty, relatively speaking. Anyway. Expect flashbacks and further melodrama, as well as Isis. :) Thanks for reading!_

* * *

**Chapter Three: Christmas**

December 2011

_You've been ignoring me, Mary,_ the text reads.

She smiles and pulls her knees to her chest, savoring the feeling of flirtation. It's something she excels at, generally speaking. It took her awhile to emerge from her shell at university, but surely that was only because of the social transition and not because of a certain incident. It _wasn't_, she thinks defiantly. It sounds so damn obvious, but it's really not.

_I haven't been ignoring you. _Her finger hesitates over the send icon. Oh, who cares? She presses it and then attempts to concentrate on the novel she's reading for English literature—_Jane Eyre_ again. Richard Carlisle reminds her very much of Mr. Rochester, a dark, dashing man—a bit of an enigma—and even though she truly does _not_ place value on novels, ever, because they're often fairytales, she thinks that there could be some merit to it. Just this once.

Her mobile buzzes. She glances down at the screen.

_You haven't been, have you? Then why not coffee tomorrow?_

_No, thank you,_ she writes back, and uncharacteristically goes back to work.

* * *

"Really—engaged?" Edith hears the professor's mutter from a good distance away, because none of the academics have the slightest idea of how to lower their voices. "The girl's bright enough. And I liked the kid."

"Pity," says the deputy provost in an equally loud voice. "About him leaving. He had promising talent."

"Do you know if he's going to come back to academics…if he makes it back?"

"Sorry, Albert. Don't know."

Edith honestly does not know how the rumour has managed to circulate this vastly. She'd only sent it to—what, fifty people? It's a big university, she thinks defensively. It shouldn't have reached the ears of the professors. Her face burning, she strides quickly past, feeling a bit like a sly cat.

Somehow, Lavinia has remained blissfully ignorant of the rumours flying over her head, and Mary has never traced the source back to her. Part of her is disappointed—she wanted a final fight with her sister, wanted to see her break. Even though Mary still doesn't seem to know it's a lie, she walks around with her head held high.

Nothing infuriates Edith more than that.

_It's Christmas 2002, and she's picked the perfect present for Patrick Gordon. Better than anything Mary could ever come up with. She just knows he'll like it, and she doesn't think Papa will mind—even though it's from his collection, he rarely pays attention to his stores anyway. _

_If Lucy were a person, Edith thinks she'd be a housewife. Or maybe a computer scientist. She's a little timid, but her eyes are just _smart. _She is also Edith's absolute favourite of the whole lot—it's a bit of a sacrifice, but it will be worth it for the smile on Patrick's face when he opens the package._

_Christmas morning brings the parlour stuffed with gifts. Patrick is there, being the son of a family friend and all, and Edith walks into the room with a sheepish smile, the little pink box held carefully with both hands. She sets it down determinedly at the foot of the tree, and takes her place on the sofa (next to Patrick. Is his arm brushing hers?), her legs swaying like the frailest of branches on a windy day. _

_When Papa finally points to the tree and tells them to go on ahead and open them, Edith shyly casts a glance at Patrick. He seems to ignore the box intended for him, reaching instead for a large blue package and checking the tag. She goes on about looking for her own presents. _

_It's like foraging. When she finally comes across a present labeled with her name, she rips it apart eagerly and finds a set of books from Aunt Rosamund. Upon closer inspection, she realizes that they're about misfits and the various dangers they present to society. She tosses it aside as Sybil disfigures a wrapped parcel to reveal a new doll, and—_

"_Oh, Aunt Rosamund!" Mary exclaims, her wide eyes skimming over a small piece of paper. "When can I ride? What breed is he?"_

"_What is it, darling?" Cora asks, as her eldest daughter leaps to her feet._

"_She's gotten me a pony, Mama!" _

_Edith snorts and goes back to sifting through her presents, keeping one eye open to see if Patrick has picked up the gift yet. _

_He hasn't. _

_The rest of her gifts amount to a plastic purse, a new edition pre-algebra book, and a shirt. She knows for a fact that Mama bought the shirt for Mary last year, but her sister hadn't wanted it. Disgruntled, Edith turns her attention to one last box that looks slightly promising, but Mary swoops in._

"_No, that one's for Patrick," she says. Her eyes burn straight through Edith's fragile pride._

_Edith stares right back as her older sister passes the wrapped bundle to Patrick with a cheerful, "I do hope you like it."_

"_Thank you," Patrick replies. He neatly peels off the paper and opens the lid, a bemused expression on his face. _

"_They're cufflinks," Mary explains with what Edith perceives as a poisonous smirk in her direction. "If you see there, that's the pearl inlay. I had the hardest time convincing Mama to let me buy them for you."_

"_How nice," Patrick's mother says._

"_Thank you," Patrick says promptly. _

"_Well!" Robert says, with a jovial smile. "Looks like there's one more left. Who's it for?"_

_Everyone's gaze falls upon the small pink box, still sitting innocently under the tree. _

"_It's Patrick's," Edith blurts, and suddenly all eyes are on her. _

"_Go on, then," his mother prods. He shuffles to his feet and tears apart the handmade packaging. _

"_I—I thought it'd be nice," Edith stutters. _

_Patrick turns the box upside down. Out plops a very tiny, very pale, and very dead mouse, with a scent worse than rotting garbage._

"_Oh, my word," her mother whispers._

"_Good God!" her father cries._

_Mary just snickers, her incredulous expression of derision masked by her hand. Edith wants to slap her._

_So she does. And it's oh-so satisfying._

_It also results in her allowance being revoked for half a year, while Mary sits queenly on the sofa, nursing a bruised cheek without a single tear. Edith can't look Patrick Gordon in the eye ever again._

* * *

Christmas 2011

Sybil usually likes Christmas. Ordinarily, it's a fun holiday where her sisters bicker nonstop, she receives copious amounts of money, and her parents drink more than they can handle.

This year, it's just a reminder of the opulence in her aristocratic family. Ever since she started volunteering as a nurse in the teaching hospital, reality has become so much harsher, and so much less delightful. Naturally, this makes Christmas morning a nightmare.

"Dior?" she exclaims, disgusted, as she pulls back the wrapping paper to reveal a bottle of perfume.

"I found it in Paris," Cora gushes. Her demure smile starts to slip as her daughter tosses it aside with shaking hands. "Sybil, darling? What is it?"

"Nothing," she stammers. "Mary's next."

Her older sister plucks a small box, wrapped in recycled brown paper, from the table. Her parents give each other knowing glances, and Sybil hardly has time to wonder why before Mary unwraps a charm bracelet.

"How lovely," Mary says, with her best false smile. But she freezes when she sees the shape of the little charm. It's a dog, jumping in the air with a cheerful grin on its face. It eerily resembles the little toy she gave to Matthew some weeks earlier, and also looks like the family's dog, who is currently curled up at her feet, snoozing.

_It's Christmas 2005, and the dreadful _other_ Crawleys have invaded their holiday traditions. Mary trudges down the apparently desolate grand staircase at four in the morning, wearing decidedly not festive clothes. She finds _him_ sitting silently on the bottom step, looking at the tree._

"_Morning," she says, and he starts to scramble to his feet. She smirks._

"_Happy Christmas." Matthew is staring at her in a way that she doesn't quite like. "Er—"_

_He's interrupted as Isis bounds excitedly across the foyer, barking. Mary can't help but laugh, a genuine laugh. The puppy wags her tail as she darts in circles around the two of them. The air seems to soften a bit._

"_I got you something," he says, awkwardly presenting a small box that he's been holding. It's haphazardly wrapped in red-and-green paper, and something inside rattles as she takes it without a word and starts to pick at the wrapping. Bits of paper flutter to the floor, littering the carpet with Christmas confetti. _

"_What is it?" she asks, not even trying to keep the disdain from her voice as she holds the simple silver circle up to the light. _

"_Er…it's a bracelet." His voice cracks and he looks down in embarrassment. _

_Mary places it back in the box and closes the lid. "It's quite lovely," she says loftily. Isis whines, and her swaying tail thwacks Mary in the leg repeatedly. "Happy Christmas," she says with forced cheeriness. "Tell your mother thank you for the gift." She starts to brush past him. _

"_Actually, I bought it," he blurts, before he can stop himself._

"_Bought it?" She narrows her eyes, but doesn't look at him. What is he trying to say? (Of course, she knows just what he's trying to do here, and it will probably put her in a sour mood for the rest of the morning.)_

_Matthew shrugs. "Savings. Allowance. You know."_

"_Thank your mother," she says again, and continues walking away._

"Isn't it wonderful?" Cora says, joyfully passing Edith a gift-wrapped bag.

"Who is it from?" She is holding her breath, but not on purpose, as she stares at the little gift. She's sure that her face is positively pale, and she feels both nauseated and nauseous with guilt. Why, _why_ did she decide not to send something to him? He shouldn't be the one who gets the short end of the stick, not when he's out there fighting, surely…

"Your Aunt Rosamund," Robert interjects. "She seems to like dogs this year, look what she gave _me._" He holds up a bowtie that is patterned with fluffy poodles.

"Well, thank God she didn't come up for Christmas this year," Mary says, tossing the bracelet aside as she regains herself. "I don't know if I'd be able to bear it."

* * *

"This Christmas sucks," says Private Stevens as he stretches out on the ground, tossing his weapon to the side and staring up at the rough ceiling. There's a murmuring chorus of agreement from the other soldiers in the platoon. "At least we're on base…Happy Christmas, mates."

"Happy Christmas."

"Happy effing Christmas."

A loud boom echoes outside, and none of them move because it feels surreal. They're sitting in a loose circle, some of them cleaning their weapons, some of them smoking, some of them scrawling letters home. Within the team, they've become much more relaxed in each other's presence since the deployment, and the titles and the "sir"s and all of that shit are forsaken, unless there's a higher-ranking officer around (which there rarely is).

Matthew pencils a few words onto a sheet of paper. He looks them over thoughtfully, before picking up the worn-out eraser and rubbing out all traces of them. He hasn't really had the time to think about Christmas. Well, he's sent home a generic letter to his mother, and another to Lavinia promising to get leave sometime soon, even though he knows it's not going to happen. But no gifts, not for anyone. It's just too hard to arrange for them out here.

At least, that's what he tells himself.

But his mother sent something, a new bottle of the slightly overpriced aftershave that he started wearing when he was seventeen to try to impress…someone. Lavinia has sent him a new tie that he most certainly won't be wearing out here, not at the front. He feels a pang of…he doesn't quite know what the feeling is, but he can't help but hope that Mary _has_ sent something and it just hasn't arrived yet. Because they're friends now, of course.

He sighs. It isn't as if he's sent her anything either, so he has no right to be complaining. Maybe that toy dog was her early Christmas present to him.

The little stuffed charm stares up at him through its miniscule eyes.

He rewrites the words—_Happy Christmas, Mary_—before joining the other soldiers in their plaintive brooding. But he doesn't dare to post the cursory note.

* * *

January 2012

Mary finds her rival in a corner of the university quad, weeping. Well, Lavinia isn't really her rival, because there's no contest. It's a lost cause. It has been a lost cause since the day of commencement.

"Lavinia?" Her steps forward are hesitant, uncertain; she really doesn't know why she's doing this. After all, this is Edith's friend, not hers. "Are you all right?"

The other woman sniffles in response. She has a gigantic box of tissues on the table next to her, and there are hardly any remaining. It's heartbreakingly pathetic. "I—I guess," she snuffles. "I'm sorry, it's just I—"

"What is it?"

"It's Matthew, he-he was supposed to get leave for the end of the month," Lavinia says. "And then he didn't—he _couldn't_ say why."

"He'll come back another time."

"You don't know that."

Mary feels her face freeze. Trying to keep the reassuring smile on her face, she says, "But—"

"And I was going to…" Lavinia trails off, pausing to blow her nose.

"What?" There's a pounding of dread in her ears. She has a foreboding feeling, similar to the one she always gets before she throws up. She doesn't know if it's disgusting, or a relief. Maybe it's both.

"I was going to tell…never mind, it's silly."

"I'm sure it isn't."

"I was going to tell him I loved him," Lavinia admits. There's nothing sheepish or shy in her tone; she sounds completely confident and sure. "Er—that I _love_ him," she amends quickly. "I know it sounds silly, but…"

Mary has to force herself to keep breathing. If she doesn't, her face will turn blue very soon. "Why didn't you?" she asks, outwardly placid, but inside she's numb as if she's just had a large shot of Novocain into her chest.

"I didn't want him to think it was too fast," Lavinia explains, wiping her face with her left hand—which conveniently displays the ring on her third finger.

"You're already…" She nods incredulously towards the ring.

"That?" Lavinia looks utterly befuddled. "Oh." She tilts her hand to admire it yet again, a fond gleam in her eyes. Mary twists her hands together to stop them from wrenching the stupid little ring off of Lavinia's hand. (Not that she would want to do that in the first place, because she isn't jealous.)

"I'm sure he—" she begins.

"That's not—that's not what it means," Lavinia says. "That's not what it really means."

"Then what does it—?"

Lavinia titters sentimentally. "He gave it to me as a gift," she says.

She's secretly glad. "It's lovely," she says, her voice bland.

"Is that what people think?" Lavinia asks, twisting the ring nervously around her finger. "They think that we're…engaged?"

"I don't know, I think…" _When you wear a ring like that, what do you think people will say? _"I think maybe some do," she says, trying not to let her tone convey any other meaning.

"Is that what you thought?"

Mary can't tell if that was a twinge of suspicion in her voice—not that she'd care if it were. "I don't know what I thought," she tries, but it's obvious from Lavinia's slightly sympathetic smile that it isn't enough. So she lifts her chin in the air and gives a tight smirk that seems to pull at every complaining muscle in her face.

"I didn't know," Lavinia murmurs, reaching into the box of tissues again and dabbing at her eyes. "People can be so catty sometimes."

Mary doesn't say anything. It probably wasn't intended as a slight, but she feels the prick of it anyway. She believed the damned rumour. She fell for someone's petty scheme. She's been taken for the fool she is.

"I just want him to come home," Lavinia continues. "I don't give a fig about what people say."

The wind whips a clod of loose snow into Mary's face and she shrinks back. "I'm sure he'll stay alive," she says. "For you."

Lavinia sniffs, her eyes red but grateful. "I hope he will."

"He will," Mary says. The words sound comforting, but they inflict sharp stabs of pain into her own heart. She seals the hurt away with a bright smile, like putting a letter into an envelope and pasting it shut forever. "Sorry, but I must dash."

"It's all right." Lavinia mops her face again with a soft tissue. "Thank you," she adds, sincerely.

"There's nothing to thank me for," Mary says, as she picks up her purse. "It's the truth."

* * *

"So _you're_ Lavinia," says the older woman, smiling. She extends her hand. "Isobel Crawley."

Lavinia brushes her hair back nervously, glancing around the small café. "It's so nice to meet you, Mrs.—er, Dr. Crawley," she says.

Isobel gives an inward chuckle. Impeccable manners. Well, it does say something about the way she's raised him that he would choose such a polite girl.

But not until after his last (and only) disaster of a romantic escapade.

Otherwise known as Mary Crawley.

"Please, call me Isobel." She points to a small table set near a window. "Shall we sit?"

"Thank you," Lavinia murmurs for no apparent reason as she takes her seat.

Isobel winces. "How have you been?" she asks. "It can be very difficult at first, from what I've read."

"It has."

"Don't worry, my dear girl, the odds are in his favour." Her expression can best be described as a reassuring grimace. "I'm sure there's nothing to worry about—not to say he's been doing nothing, of course, but even if he is in some sort of combat the chances are he'll make it out just fine."

"I don't want chances, or odds," Lavinia replies, her eyes earnestly wide as she leans forward in her seat. "I—I hardly had the chance to know him before…"

"All the same, it's probably best that he goes now," Isobel says briskly. "While he's still young."

"Too young," Lavinia says.

"I don't want him to go either. I'm his mother," Isobel reminds her. "I didn't like it when he signed up. But he's ever so stubborn." Her keen gaze sweeps over the girl quickly, and alights upon the small band that encircles Lavinia's left finger. "What's that?" she asks, more sharply than she intended to.

Lavinia flushes red instantly. "I—"

"Is that from Matthew?" Isobel's protective maternal instinct is to immediately banish the girl who could captivate him so, convince him to give her a promise after mere _weeks_ and—

"Yes, but it—it's not what it looks like."

"Is it?" She narrows her eyes in suspicion.

"Oh, no. It was just a—a gift. It didn't mean that," Lavinia says hastily. But the more she tells everyone this, the less she believes it herself. It means more than just the little token that it is.

He'd said it was a promise.

She's starting to think that it might be a more serious vow. And she doesn't know whether she should be scared or elated.

"What _does_ it mean, exactly?" Isobel says. Just then, her pager starts to beep.

"It—"

"I'm so sorry. I'm needed in intensive care." Isobel pushes back her chair, which squeals against the floor. "This was cut a bit short, I'm sorry, but—we really ought to speak again sometime, Lavinia."

"Of course."

"Pleasure to meet you," Isobel says almost perfunctorily. And then she's gone.


	5. Chapter 4: Missing

_A/N: And so it continues…this modern, slightly dystopian and yet a little bit fairytale-like fic. A bit of action towards the middle. And maybe a certain character called William. Shutting up now._

_Thanks for reading!_

* * *

**Chapter Four: Missing**

February 2012

Isobel and Lavinia are once more seated at a café table, both clutching a cup of coffee, drinking faster than they absolutely must just to have an excuse not to talk. The older woman is staring at the younger. "You said that there's nothing to it. The ring means nothing," she says, flatly.

Lavinia looks down, slightly sheepish. "It's—it's not an engagement," she stammers.

"Then what is it?" Isobel's voice is cut, clipped, and she's fighting to keep it that way. "I only want to know the truth. As Matthew's mother, I feel I am entitled to that."

"It's—a…I don't know what exactly it means but there's—"

Isobel raises her eyebrows. "You _don't know_ what it means?"

"—no, no, of course I know what it means, I'm sorry, I…" Lavinia reaches out to take a rough napkin from the dispenser and starts to dry her eyes before the tears even come. "It's a promise. Just to be…faithful, I guess."

Bristling, Isobel straightens up to her full height. "And he said that?"

"He called it a promise," Lavinia answers.

"Well." She puts on a tight smile. "I'm very glad that he has you. Very glad indeed."

* * *

"Sybil darling, that's wonderful," Mary says.

Her sister frowns, twisting her hands together until they turn deathly pale from lack of circulation. "Is it? I don't know."

"But you have to tell him yes!"

"But Mary, I don't know if I _want_ to."

"Of course you do. Even Mama likes Tom Bellasis. Tell him yes before you lose him." Mary can't help but think of those horrible last days of the sixth form—and there is no way Sybil is going through that hell, not if she can help it.

"Maybe I don't care if I lose him," Sybil says, her hands on her hips.

"Oh, please," Mary says, and her expression radiates scorn. "You don't know what you've got until it's gone."

"I don't know if I—"

"He made you laugh when Billy Russell's uncle was giving a speech at Haxby," Mary reminds her.

"That doesn't mean I like him." Sybil drops onto the couch with a dramatic sigh and starts picking at the tattered knee of her denim trousers. "He was so _nice_ about it, too. He told me to take my time. But I don't want to leave him waiting."

"Then for God's sake, just tell him yes." Her teeth are bared in what is supposed to be a patient smile. (It isn't.)

"You really think I should?"

Mary thinks of where she could be now. Where _they_ could be now. Of all they could have done together. How she would probably be out with him instead of curled up on her sister's sofa, giving relationship advice. "Tell him _now._"

"Now?" Sybil looks utterly bewildered. "But—"

The older Crawley snatches up the state-of-the-art mobile from the coffee table. "I can text him now, if you want."

"God, no. Give me that!"

"If you tell him."

"Fine." Sybil sighs and starts dialing. "Shut up while I call."

* * *

Now that her younger sister has gone off with her new boyfriend and his mates, Mary's alone in the flat. Anna has promised to be back by midnight with some food, but until then the fridge is empty and the rooms are silent.

She sits for a little while, but the bleakness gnaws at her. If there's one thing she can't stand, it's being at home on a Friday night with only misery for company. She craves the thudding music, the bad singing, the dim lights. She wants to be the centre of attention.

So she goes out to drink.

The man next to her at the bar orders a beer, and another, and another, until he's practically slumped over the little strip of paper that he keeps staring at. Mary, on the other hand, stays perfectly upright, no matter how much alcohol she goes through. She tells herself that she's developed a little bit of a tolerance over the last few months, but it's clear that this guy has none.

"Wha's'yer name?" he slurs, turning as best he can in his chair to face her.

She doesn't notice him at first. But when she does see this man, staring at her with a somewhat dopey smile, her first thought is that he looks a little like Matthew, only drunk.

"Mary," she says. Her voice is dull and completely lacking emotion. "Mary Crawley."

The stranger takes another drink before he says, "Private William Mason."

It vaguely occurs to her that he says this with some sort of pride. "Army?" she asks, taking out her credit card to pay for all of her drinks.

"Yeah," he says. "I joined up, and she dumped me. Never saw that coming." He's rambling now, and she raises an eyebrow in slight confusion.

"Are you being deployed?" Mary says, as she signs for the bill.

"Afghanistan. Can't wait to kick some terrorist arse."

"Ever occurred to you that they might kick yours?" Her voice is bitterer than the cheap beer he's drinking.

"Daisy's left me," he says, fiddling with the one gift his girlfriend ever gave him—a strip of photo booth pictures of them together. "Got nothing to lose."

"Your life."

"I want to do my bit," he argues.

Mary's eyes snap. "You think you're so important, do you?" she says harshly. "You think you're—some—hero and you'll change the world, when you're nothing more than a grain of sand in a beach."

"I don't care." William shoves his drink aside. "I'm proud to do whatever I can. However little it is."

"Duty and honour, is it?" She snorts derisively. "Fat lot of good that did the men who died."

"You don't understand," he insists, sounding very much like Matthew to her ears, and the bar light shines down on his hair and makes it look a few shades lighter. The music pounds through her. _All those fairytales are full of shit…_

"Don't I?"

"No! You don't. It isn't about being a hero, it's about…doing just what I can." He stares at her with large, terrified eyes—she sees another tragedy, another boy going to war.

"You—stupid prig—" she whispers haltingly, and then their heads are so close together that she can smell the five different beers on his balmy breath. "You stupid prig…"

When her lips smear against his, it all tastes and smells of warm alcohol, fuzzy and comfortable. He reaches up with a shuddering hand to touch her hair, and that's when she's startled into pulling back. Her mind is clouded, but she knows that something is off when she isn't quite sure who she's snogging—William, or—

As she turns her back with a muttered excuse, she knows she won't ever see Private Mason again, and she won't be looking for him.

* * *

She stumbles around for a bit, thinking blindly that she has to get to the flat. It seems that the drinks have finally taken effect. It's only by accidentally wandering into the middle of the street that she manages to hail a cab. She doesn't remember at the moment how much she's supposed to tip the cabbie, and she's not completely sure that she took back the credit card after paying.

It's at around two in the morning that she totters into the flat. Since she left, she's lost a hairclip, a charge card, and a decent amount of her self-worth. "Anna?" she calls out weakly, as she fumbles with the light switch for the kitchen—it's too damn bright right now, her head will split open soon.

Her flatmate appears in the doorway of her bedroom, just as groggy but sober. "What's happened?"

"Nothing," Mary snaps. Anna just nods.

"Do you want to talk?"

"No." She almost walks into the sofa, but seems to bounce off and staggers towards her room instead.

"We'll talk tomorrow," Anna says.

"No," she mumbles again, as she lurches forward another two steps. The room tilts, her head whirls, and Anna's face is blurry. "No, I—"

"Into bed with you," Anna says firmly, guiding her across the small room. "You need sleep."

"I don't need sleep," she mutters. "He needs sleep."

"All right." Her eyes radiate concern, and Mary simply can't have that.

"I'm fine," she says, proving her point wonderfully as she collapses onto her bed in a sorry heap. "Fine."

Anna hesitates.

"I said, I'm fine!"

"Night then," Anna says, reluctantly starting to retreat.

* * *

When Mary wakes up, it's near noon. There's a cheery little text from Sybil—evidently going out with Tom Bellasis was the right decision. But this just makes her slump back into her pillow.

A few hours later, she ventures into the kitchen for some coffee, but is immediately ambushed by a horrific natural disaster. Also known as her flatmate.

"You need to tell me what happened," Anna says. "You would have failed any breath test with flying colours."

"No, I don't." Mary folds her arms, her eyes flashing. "I'm fine."

"You aren't _fine_!" Anna yells. "You haven't been fine in months—you don't do your work, you skip class half the time, and you're always sulking. Do—you—want—to—talk."

"No! And I do _not_ sulk."

"Do you want me to set you up with a therapist?"

"I don't need a therapist," she snarls.

"Then talk," Anna says.

"I don't want to talk." She breathes out heavily, suddenly aware that she hasn't brushed her teeth. She feels almost like a dragon with repellent breath.

"You can't keep it bottled up forever," Anna says.

"I don't want to talk," she repeats.

"We all know why you're screwed up." Anna starts to pace. "You've been a wreck ever since you heard that Matthew was being deployed."

"Coincidence," Mary says with a wave of her hand, trying to think of some other life-changing event that occurred around November. Exams, maybe.

"Yes. You have. And this is so not you."

"I'm not allowed to go to a bar without you thinking I'm in a crisis?"

"You _are_ in a crisis."

"That's your opinion," she huffs, stomping back to her room without eating anything.

* * *

Matthew crouches behind the wall of the shed, hearing a grenade go off on the other side, and he thinks about his resolutions again. It's a scrambled mess of ideas and ideals, but there's one thought that keeps floating to the top of the pile.

Write to her, he thinks.

He'd told her they were friends, and he sure as hell doesn't want that to change. It's taken so much time just to climb to this fragile point of peace.

He decides that if he makes it back to base, he's going to come up with the courage to write something, anything.

* * *

"We have reports of insurgents to the south," says the lieutenant, his feet solid on the dusty earth as he struggles to be heard over the wind. "We're to patrol, but back off if there's enemy fire. Understood?"

The men grumble as they reach for their gear and toss aside cigarettes.

"Don't they have planes now? Can't they just blow them all to hell?"

"The effing terrorists just can't give us a day off. It's a Sunday, for Christ's sake."

"What the fu—"

"Enough!" Lieutenant Taylor roars. "This isn't a effing routine patrol." Silence swoops through the clustered group. "There's a real risk this time, men. We don't know how they're armed, or even how many of them there are. It's our job to find out."

Half an hour later, the soldiers troop out of the gates, with powerful machine guns strapped to each man. They march together through several villages, starting to perspire a little, the hot breeze spewing dust into their helmets. The rustle of their uniforms, in time with the rhythm, reminds each one that they are not alone.

That is, until the lieutenant shouts, "Break!"

Matthew is paired with a short, grubby man called Flanagan. They nod wordlessly to each other and stride west. The sounds of the other soldiers gradually fade into the distance until there is nothing but their two pairs of boots thudding against the sand.

Matthew points to a seemingly abandoned building. "There's a path of footprints by the door."

"Let's go round the back, then," Flanagan says. "Give them a nasty little surprise, eh? You lead, Crawley."

They circle the warehouse, Matthew leading, Flanagan covering from behind. Both men gulp in a breath as they round the first corner, but it's clear. Slowly, they advance to the next corner. A shuffling noise from the other side stops them. Matthew's grip on the gun tightens.

A man with a long beard, wearing grimy clothes, appears from the other side, ducking behind a whimpering child and aiming a small shotgun. He shouts something, and points the weapon at the young boy.

Matthew feels his teeth clench. It's sick, and so utterly despicable that anyone would dare use a child like this, but it happens every day here. He tilts his weapon down so it aims at the ground, and gives the smallest of reassuring smiles to the boy.

"Put it on the ground," the bearded man yells in an accented voice. "Both of you."

He can feel Flanagan hesitating behind him. "Put the goddamn gun down," Matthew hisses, as he lowers his own into the dust and raises his hands behind his head.

There's a burst of fire, two shots, and Flanagan falls to the earth with a muffled cry. Matthew closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, getting a mouthful of grainy sand.

"Come," the man says, nodding towards the other side of the building. "Or I shoot the child." He presses the barrel of the gun into the young boy's head. "I said, come!"

* * *

Mary doesn't quite know why she's awake. It's three in the morning, on a Sunday, but she's strung out and she can't seem to force her eyes shut. She's written several e-mails, all addressed to the same person, not a single one of them sent.

She has her earphones plugged into her laptop, calming music wafting through her ears, and her heart seems to be beating irregularly. She pulls the blankets tighter around her, but the air in the room seems to drop to negative twenty. It's so cold, so terribly, terribly cold…

"Mary?" One bleary eye appears in the door as it opens just a crack. "It's the middle of the night, you're still up?"

"I'm fine, Anna," she replies, pulling out one of her earphones. "Just can't sleep, is all."

"Are you burning up or something?" her flatmate asks, seeing the pile of covers under which Mary is cowering. But Anna treads carefully. Things are still not the same between them. "It's warm in here."

"It is?" Mary looks about in apparent surprise. "It felt positively freezing to me." She focuses her eyes once more on the screen. "'Night," she says impatiently.

"G'night," Anna murmurs, closing the door.

Something is _definitely_ not right.

* * *

It's a typical Thursday afternoon, and Lavinia is poring over her advanced calculus textbook with a determined glint in her tired eyes.

And that's when the phone rings.

"Hello?" she says tentatively, trying to quash memories of being nine years old and answering, thinking it was her father, and being practically scared to death when it was a telemarketer. She knows it's silly, but that's what she always thinks of when she picks up a call from an unidentified number.

"May I speak with Miss Lavinia Swire?" says the low voice on the other end.

"Speaking," she says, clenching her fingers around the phone.

"This is the War Office."

* * *

Edith doesn't quite know how it's come to be that she's in Lavinia's flat, wordlessly passing her friend tissues as she sobs her heart out. It's so sad to watch. It's also slightly revolting.

Seriously, the snot is starting to get to her.

There's a large honking sound that sounds like it's coming from a congested horse as Lavinia blows her nose into yet another piece of Kleenex.

Edith flinches. "So what's happened?" she says kindly.

Sniffle. Sniffle. "H-he—Matthew—is m-missing," Lavinia sobs, and starts coughing.

She can feel her pulse pounding just above her eyebrows. "What?" She remembers how she used to have the most awful crush on him a few years back—not that she still feels _that_ way about him, but of course she's stunned. Who wouldn't be?

"He was on a patrol," Lavinia manages to say. "And—and—oh, God, I just can't—he…" She falls back into blubbing and wipes at her face with another snorting noise.

Edith starts to pass her another tissue when she realizes…Mary.

Oh, shit.


	6. Chapter 5: Torture

_A/N: Sorry about the wait. If you're still reading (are you? I really hope so) thanks for sticking with this story. :) I'd really appreciate it if you left comments, even if it's constructive or critical. Thanks again._

* * *

**Chapter Five: Torture**

March 2012

The springs of her frayed living room couch screech as Edith sprawls on the cushions and presses a few buttons on the screen of her mobile to dial. It goes to voicemail on the first ring.

"Papa?" she says into the phone. "It's Edith. I—there's something I need to tell you. It's…not good news, I'm afraid. So could you give me a ring, when you get a chance?"

She clicks off and then pulls up an episode of _Sherlock_ on her laptop from a slightly illicit website, not even laughing as Mycroft steps on his brother's toga-like sheet and Sherlock threatens to walk away. No, today she just bites her nails anxiously and waits for her mobile to beep.

Finally, there's a trill—it's the pinging noise that only _her_ phone could be capable of making, it's so damn obnoxious. She snatches it up, but it's not her father, it's only a spam.

It's well after midnight and Edith is watching the Fall by the time her Papa calls her back. Out of sheer slothfulness, she sets it on speakerphone so she won't have to prop it against her ear.

"Edith?" Her father's voice is gruff, impatient. "What is it? Do you want me to talk to Mary again?"

"No, it's not that—not exactly."

She can hear him sigh. "For God's sake, spit it out, Edith."

"I don't—"

"I really haven't the time. Can it wait?"

"No," Edith blurts, her back stiffening. "No, it can't. I…I think you should know this."

"Know what?" There's a shuffling from the other end.

"Matthew Crawley's gone missing."

A thud. "_What?_"

She pictures her father whirling around, his shined shoes squeaking. "Yes."

"Good God."

Hesitating, Edith closes her laptop and pushes it to the side. "What should I tell Mary?"

"You didn't hear it from her?"

"No, I—from Lavinia. His..." She remembers how she'd said "fiancee" before. Now is not the time. "...girlfriend."

"Oh." Robert heaves a burdened sigh. "Do you think we can spare Mary the details?"

"I don't see what the point is of protecting her," Edith says, suddenly snappish. "Nothing really happened between them anyways."

As a crackle of static pervades into the line, her father replies, "Of course. Right. She'd be angry with us for keeping it from her."

"Could _you_ tell her?" Edith picks at her chipped fingernails. She's still not quite comfortable around her sister—not that she feels guilty about spreading that rumour, what does she have to be guilty about?

"No one wants to be the bearer of bad news."

"Exactly." She considers for a moment. "Mary does have a tendency to shoot the messenger."

Her father chuckles. "I don't think she can shoot me through Skype," he says.

"Wear your vest."

* * *

"Papa!" Mary exclaims. Robert's face looms large, fishlike on the screen of her computer.

"How's university?" His voice is strained.

"Fine," she lies.

"Is that bloke Carlisle still giving you trouble?"

Mary huffs and crosses her arms. "He didn't ever 'give me trouble'."

"Oh, you know what I mean," Robert says as he takes a sip of something out of a snifter. Scotch, probably.

"We text. That's all," she replies, defensively.

"Hm." Her father narrows his eyes. "Well—"

"It's nothing to worry about."

"That's not it." The image shudders as he tilts the camera so that his grave gaze is directed straight at her. "I've had news from Edith."

With a derisive snort, she says, "I hardly think that will matter to me."

"It might, this time," Robert answers. His tone is both forbidding and forbearing.

"What is it, then?"

Her father knocks back a second drink. "Matthew's missing," he announces grimly.

* * *

That first day, Mary discovers that she did not previously know what it meant to cry. Whimpers, maybe, brief weeping.

Ugly. She feels so ugly. The sobs are ghastly. The snot is repulsive. The fact that she can't control it makes her feel so…powerless. She pushes away the glass of water that Anna gives her, and refuses to eat until she feels almost faint.

In fact, she doesn't leave her room and quite forgets about university…it's three days before Sybil arrives and tells her off. "Enough is enough, Mama will have a fit if your marks slip," she says, and passes her an almost comically large stack of papers. "Get to work."

"No."

"We all have to keep going." Sybil is watching her as though she's a child again. Which is odd, seeing as she's the younger of the two. "Mary—"

Her sister is already picking up a pencil. "Don't expect me to keep up any other sort of charade."

* * *

His letter arrives soon after. She swallows back a retching sound in her throat when she sees it. These notes are supposed to be reassurances of safety, but she knows this one isn't. Its only purpose seems to be making her cry.

_Dear Mary—_

_Hope you're having a grand time back at university. I never thought I'd miss O'Brien's rambling lectures, but it's true. Don't worry. Tell them all not to worry. We all protect each other out here. I've just heard that I've finally got leave in a few weeks, so I'll be back in England for a bit to remind myself what real food tastes like. _

_Your friend,_

_Matthew_

* * *

The weeks pass. When she isn't trudging through her classes, she watches telly and ignores Dick Carlisle's texts.

Eventually, Dick shows up on her doorstep. "Mary, please," he says through the door, but his voice is still rough and commanding somehow. "I don't want us to end this way."

She puts _Real Housewives_ (she isn't sure which city it is, but they all act the same anyway, so does it matter?) on mute and crosses hesitantly to the door.

"What?" she snaps, opening the door ever so slightly.

"Would you just answer my texts?" he pleads. He holds out his hands in apparent supplication. "God, I'm _trying_ here, and—"

Mary holds up her mobile. "By sending me fifteen messages?" she says, quirking an eyebrow.

"Well, I'm _here,_ aren't I?" Richard gestures vaguely.

She smirks. "I guess you are."

"Can I come in?"

Placing her hand on the side of the door, she tries not to scowl. "Maybe some other time," she says. His mobile pings and she sees his amused smile just before the door shuts.

She sighs in resignation as she retreats to her room again. She misses him. Not the brutish snob standing outside her doorway—the stubborn soldier in Afghanistan. She just wants him to come back, safe and sound.

Outside the flat, Richard chuckles as he reads the text she's sent.

_Fine. Are you happy?_

_Very,_ he writes back, and presses send.

* * *

Lavinia cannot stop the tears. She tries to go to class, but has to leave halfway through because the people around her are shooting her nasty looks when she cries into a tissue.

Missing.

Edith comes by and offers her a bottle of schnapps, but Lavinia just shakes her head. She can't honestly be expected to drink away _this_ pain. This pain hurts too much to be numbed by alcohol.

Not that she's ever tried drinking. Oh, no, Lavinia Swire is above all that, morally speaking. She doesn't drink. She's never touched drugs (except once, when she had her wisdom teeth out, and that was by prescription). She goes to church on Sundays.

Lavinia brushes her teeth, spitting the frothy mess into the sink, and then glancing up into the mirror. She looks like a rabid animal, with foam at the mouth and bloodshot eyes. Her hair is curling in all directions.

She can't believe that they can't tell her any more than they have. They must have something, something they aren't saying. They don't know where he is, they don't know exactly when he went missing, and they don't know if he's even alive.

That can't be true, she thinks, and then starts to cry again because she feels so helpless, but dutifully makes her way over to her bedroom, sitting on her bed and staring into her closet, because she has to get ready for church.

During the sermon, she somehow manages to stay stiff and unmoving, frozen. And when they pray, she only prays for one thing, one person.

Matthew.

* * *

Matthew remembers one time when he was six and dared to pry a rusted nail from the floor of the old shed in the garden. He remembers how his mother turned on him, snatched the sharp pointed rod and flung it away, scolding him about tetanus (not that he even knew what that meant). He even remembers which shirt she was wearing—an old, beaten-down tee shirt that used to belong to his grandfather. He remembers trying not to cry, and how she was ever-so-slightly mollified by that.

If only she could see what he was doing right now.

In the dark, dank cell, he slowly chips away at the makeshift handcuffs with an old nail. All of him—his face, his legs, arms, even groin—screams with pain, but he grates his teeth together and just keeps sawing away, not daring to say anything, even to his fellow captives (none of whom are even from his unit), who are mostly lying on the dirty broken-down floor, staring into the nothingness.

One of the guards stomps in, and he stops, hands innocently positioned behind his back. "Which one of you is next?" the sentry says in accented English. No one else says a word.

Matthew looks down. He can feel the binds starting to weaken, now, and he's _so_ close to freedom. Though he doesn't have the faintest idea what he'll do if he _does_ break free, because they are all weaponless and battered and don't know the layout of the place. Hell, they don't even know if they're still in Afghanistan.

"You," the guard barks, pointing.

His matted hair is in his eyes (good God, what would _she_ say about that? He looks a mess…_she_ being Lavinia, of course, of course, of course Lavinia), but he can see that the guard is pointing to him. Dread soaks through him, and he exhales deeply, trying not to strain the handcuffs too much. So this is how his whole life is going to end. In a terrorist camp at the age of nineteen. Or is he twenty, now? He doesn't know the date precisely, but he knows his birthday has either passed recently or will happen soon.

Some birthday, he thinks, as he struggles to his feet and is led from the room, his face prickling from the sudden loss of blood.

* * *

"Come to the hospital." It's not an order, it's Sybil pleading—which is rare these days. "Please, Mary? Mr. Carson likes someone to sit with him, and the nurse says that I have to deal with new patients today and I—"

"I can't," Mary says lamely into her mobile, as she fingers a battered sheet of paper. She swears it smells of him. "I have plans."

"God, don't give me that!" Sybil yells, and Mary stops dead, stricken. "We all know you don't, just get over here. I'm in geriatrics. _Now._" There's a static-coated scuffling noise from Sybil's end as she hangs up.

Ashamed, Mary pulls on a coat and trudges reluctantly down the street to the hospital. Damn the fact that she doesn't ever go out anymore. Damn Sybil, with her golden boyfriend Bellasis. Damn geriatrics.

* * *

The room smells like blood, a scent that he's gotten used to a little too well. As they marshal him towards the stained chair, he catches a glimpse of a table laden with bayonets and knives, but they push his head down. Matthew doesn't dare to resist.

They force him down into the chair. A man, wearing sweaty-smelling clothing and a scowl, picks up a cup of instant coffee and gulps it down, making sure to look the young soldier in the eye as he does so.

Matthew's stomach groans. He shifts uncomfortably, almost breaking the cuffs again, and stares shame-faced at a spot on the floor.

"Hungry?" the interrogator says, leaning forward.

He shakes his head wordlessly. It feels as if there is a dog climbing on top of him, in his face, and he thinks of Isis. Robert Crawley's Labrador.

The man smirks.

While he's being smacked across the face until it screams, being bayoneted between his legs (God, it hurts, each blow is a chilling pain), being slashed with a knife that stings his skin just before it pierces, he tries to think of Isis the dog and her swishing tail as she leapt onto his lap during that Christmas. Was it six years ago? Or seven?

A blade dragged over his grime-coated leg—"When is the raid planned?" the man yells, but Matthew just hisses and tilts his head up to avoid looking at the bloody gash—and he remembers walking into that damn university for the first time, and hearing that she'd been to the theatre with that Napier chap.

No. He can't think about that.

"When?" his captor demands, with a glittering glare.

He scrunches his eyes closed until it starts to hurt. The wound on his knee is dripping, oozing, and he can feel the hot liquid dashing down the front of his leg. (Tears, chasing down his face, even though it must be a fantasy because he _didn't_ cry when she turned him down, he _didn't_…) "I—don't—know," Matthew manages.

He's thinking about _her_ again, no matter how much he might _not_ want to. As another biting wound is inflicted, this time onto his chest, there's a flash of brightness. And for no apparent reason he's reminded of her scoffing at him. Of how she'd laughed mercilessly at everything from his clothes to his marks in classics (either too abysmal or too spectacular) and how he'd had a level of enthusiasm to rival Edith's on the class trip to the ancient cathedrals.

God, he wishes he could just go back.

* * *

Anna arrives back at the flat with a therapist in tow. (She's resolved to do whatever it takes to restore the old Mary and banish the phantom that is currently living in their flat.)

"Have a seat," she says to the man behind her. "Would you like some tea?"

"That's very kind." He lowers himself gingerly into an armchair with the help of his cane.

Anna puts the kettle on. "Just a moment, please. I'll fetch her." She strides to the door of Mary's bedroom and knocks briskly. "Mary?"

No answer. She pushes the door open, flicks the light on. Only an unmade bed, a large pile of rotting food packages, a mobile phone emitting pinging noises, and a laptop perched precariously on a stack of books. And no Mary.

* * *

"Good, you're here," Sybil says triumphantly. She isn't wearing a nurse's uniform or anything, but she looks perfectly at home. "Mr. Carson's in three-oh-eight, I think he's still awake. I'll take you there and introduce."

Mary sighs. "I don't have all afternoon."

"Yes, you do," Sybil tells her, then pokes her head into a door. "Mr. Carson?"

"_Sybil,_" an elderly voice croaks, filled with recognition.

"This is my sister, Mary," Sybil says, cheerfully nudging Mary forward into the room. "She's come to sit with you today."

Mr. Carson is an elderly man of perhaps eighty years, with white hair that is threatening to disappear and a device for extra oxygen secured under his rather large nose. His face practically radiates disappointment. "You can't?"

"I really think you could," Mary agrees, glaring at her sister.

Sybil shakes her head. "Not today, but don't worry about Mary. She won't bite."

The old man harrumphs. "Mary, eh? You look like your sister."

She can't believe she willingly walked into this trap. And now there's no getting out of it, Mary realizes as Sybil starts for the door, pointing to the red button next to the bed.

"You know what to do if something happens," Sybil says, and Mr. Carson grimaces.

"I know," he says gruffly.

And then the only noise in the room is BBC News, turned to the faintest possible volume.

"So," Mr. Carson says, shifting a little in his bed to look at Mary. "What is it that's giving you so much trouble, if you don't mind my asking?" Somehow, his voice is sincere.

"Excuse me?" Mary raises an eyebrow and pretends not to know exactly what he's talking about.

He snorts. "It's obvious, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry, but—"

"What's his name?" Mr. Carson asks.

She crosses her right leg over her left. "I don't think that's any of your business," she snaps, not even feeling guilty that it's an elderly man she's raising her voice with.

"Oh, come on," scoffs Mr. Carson, his wrinkled face close to a smile. "Written all over you, and you deny it. Is that how everyone does it now? It was so much simpler when I was younger. In my day—"

"You don't understand."

"I'm ninety-three," he says, eyeing her. "I understand _everything._"

"I'll place money on the fact that you won't."

"Oh, I _will_, though." Mr. Carson's eyes are alight with the prospect of a challenge.

"You _won't_ understand," she insists, wishing that she'd brought her phone with her. Then she could avoid having only this aggravating man for company.

"Try."

"No," Mary says childishly.

"I'm a dying man," Mr. Carson says, his voice hoarse. "Your secret"—he coughs raspingly, like a car engine coming to life—"will die with _me._"

Mary _has_ to tell someone. She hasn't even told Sybil. Or Anna. She feels rather like a dramatic character from bad telly who confesses all of her deepest feelings.

But so be it.

* * *

Edith doesn't exactly recognize him when she walks by the cathedral, casting a disdainful glare at the churchgoers. She feels slightly guilty when she realizes that they're all clad in black for a reason, but she has a paper to write, so she just walks right on by.

That is, until a voice calls out to her.

"Edith?"

She whips around and nearly drops her books. The one on nineteenth century politics almost topples onto her foot, but she manages to save it with an awkward bobbing maneuver that twists her ankle instead. Thank God.

The young man is wearing a dark suit and carrying a black umbrella, even though it isn't exactly raining. "It is Edith, isn't it?"

"Patrick?" she says. Well, her voice doesn't usually sound quite that…shrieky. "What are you doing here? I thought you were somewhere in America."

"Canada, actually," he replies, his voice bitter.

She tries to ignore the stabbing pain in her left foot. "That's wonderful."

"Wonderful, my eye," Patrick says. "It's bloody _awful_."

"Oh." She slides her foot back and forth, tentatively, trying to see if it will still move without her wincing. Fortunately, it seems to be only slightly uncomfortable.

"And then Mother died. So here I am."

"I'm so sorry to hear that." Edith reaches out and gives him a comforting pat on the shoulder—she hasn't seen him in almost ten years, not since that awful Christmas that she tries to forget…"You must miss her so much."

"Well." Patrick shrugs nervously. "I think I'm here to stay. For now. How have you been?"

"All right, I guess," she says awkwardly. "You know. Studying. That sort of thing. Nothing terribly interesting."

"Have all the men been chasing you down?" he teases. "Because I'll have to have words with them."

"A few," Edith lies, running a hand through her flyaway hair. "But there's no one in particular at the moment," she adds, which is downright brazen for her.

"Is that so?" Patrick raises an eyebrow. "In that case—are you free next Friday, Edith?"

A smile slides onto her face, more easily than she'd care to admit. "I think so."

* * *

"Well, now, that's not your fault," Mr. Carson rumbles, but Mary shakes her head.

"Even if it isn't, it was still a mistake," she says. "Hesitating. I should have just told him yes, and—"

"Hm," says Carson, considering. "But it was an honest mistake."

"Honest?" Her eyebrows are arched to the point where it almost aches. "No, I was scared. There isn't anything honest about that."

"Caution is a virtue. Are you…leaving anything out?"

Mary sighs. "Kemal," she says simply. Memories of those few stolen, torrid hours come rushing through her head like a crashing wave. "When I was sixteen, I had a…fling with an exchange student."

Mr. Carson seems to compare the two situations. "You felt as though…you had to tell this to this _Matthew_ fellow?"

"He knew that I'd…gone out with Kemal, but not—what happened." She falters. "He thought I was hesitating because Kemal had just come back, but I couldn't tell him because then he'd think I was such a little sl—"

"Don't judge yourself, just keep talking," Carson mutters as his eyes drift closed. "I'm not sleeping, I promise I won't."

When she finally gets to the end, omitting nothing, not even the William Mason incident, Carson is smiling faintly. "Tell him what's in your heart," he instructs, carefully.

"He's _missing_!" she snaps. "Obviously."

"No," Carson says in a near whisper.

"What do you mean?" Her pulse throbs in her temples.

"He may be missing," Mr. Carson concedes, "but he isn't missing from your memory."

* * *

"Where _were_ you this afternoon?" Anna demands. Her cup of tea is long gone cold, but she still clasps it between her hands as she paces. "…No, wait, don't answer that. I don't want to know. Your therapist was here this afternoon. And the _one_ Sunday that you decide to go off somewhere and…God knows. Poor Mr. Bates came from all the way across town just to see you, and for nothing. He had to get home, but—"

"Hospital," Mary says shortly, closing her eyes and collapsing into a chair with an exhausted sigh.

"What happened?" Her flatmate's eyes are suddenly wide with concern.

"Nothing. It wasn't for me. It was for Sybil—she needed help, so I went. Aren't you happy that I got out of the flat?"

Anna sighs. "I _am_ glad."

"I don't need a therapist, anyway."

"But I think you should see him all the same. It'd help. He's a nice man."

"I don't _need_ to see him," Mary says through gritted teeth. "God, why do you all think I have to see a shrink?"

"It can't hurt." Anna's lips curve into a small smile, but her eyes are simmering with a stew of frustration. "If you were a mess before…well, it's only gotten worse."

Mary tries to swallow, but there is an odd obstruction in the back of her throat in the form of a sob. But she won't let Anna see. "Who _wouldn't_ be worried about him?"

"Even if that's true, most people wouldn't fall to pieces." Anna's voice is kind, but unsparingly truthful. "You've basically thrown away your life, and it's not worth it."

"Do you think…" she trails off, not meeting her friend's eyes. "Someone told me that I should say what I really feel. Do you think he's right?"

"I always say honesty's the best policy," Anna says. She takes a sip of tea. "But I don't know if you think that too."

* * *

Two days later, and Mary finds herself once more in the old man's room, content to watch the BBC with him (even enduring a stuffy period drama that Mr. Carson seems to take a liking to).

"Customs were so much _easier_ back then," he says. His voice is croakier today than before, but Mary knows better than to say anything about it. "So much simpler. There was honour and dignity."

"And there isn't any now?" she replies.

"Not nearly as much." But then Carson shushes her as a dignified lady accepts a proposal from her father's heir. "There. That's done properly," he says, as though he were speaking to a small child. "That's the way it was supposed to be. From the beginning."

"Social customs," she scoffs.

"They have hearts, too, you know," he says. "Which matters."

"Sure it does." Her eyes twinkle. "If they didn't have hearts, they'd be dead."

"Oh, you know what I meant," he says ruefully. "That, there, is not an arranged marriage. It's a proper marriage."

Mary sighs. "Proper?"

"In the true dramatic fashion, they've come back to each other." Carson also exhales, but much more dreamily. "It's a love story."

"I hate fairytales." She coughs as a waft of disinfectant-smelling air passes under her nose.

"No one can hate fairytales," says Carson.

"I can."

* * *

Alone, Edith sits primly at the restaurant table, waiting. She's taken her time getting ready, and she's pretty sure the result is (for once) satisfactory. And from what she can see in the shiny candleholders, her makeup hasn't smeared. So far, so good.

She's not sure at what point her gut starts tingling. Not out of hunger, but out of some sort of fear. She glances at her watch again. He's ten minutes late already.

Thirteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.

Eighteen.

Nineteen.

The waiter comes and asks if she'd like to place her order. She says no.

She plasters a false smile onto her face and starts sipping from her tall glass of water.

Twenty-six. Edith takes out her mobile and dials the number he gave her the other day.

"_Hi, this is Patrick. Leave a message and I'll call you back."_ Beep.

She hangs up.

Thirty-two.

The waiter asks again if she'd like to order. She flips open the menu and looks at the first course options.

Fifty-eight. She starts to eat.

Eighty-three. She calls him again, while waiting for her main course to be cleared. No answer.

Ninety-seven. Edith orders a large slice of cake for dessert.

Ninety-nine. The waiter tells her that the cake was a typo, and that she'll have to order something else. She asks for the check instead.

One hundred and six. She leaves him a crappy tip and hesitates before getting up. Maybe Patrick is just late. Really, _really _late.

She walks away.


	7. Chapter 6: Nursing

April 2012

"I'm sorry, I can't," Mary says, turning to glare at her sister as she slams her morning cup of coffee onto the table at the nurses' station. "I just can't."

"But Mary," Sybil protests, following her through the brightly lit hospital corridor. "They _need_ someone to sing 'God Save the Queen' for the military fundraising and…and…Mr. Carson and I already volunteered you."

"You did _what_?" Mary says, aghast. "Sybil Crawley, you march right down there to the front desk and take my name off that list, I am _not_ singing at some amateur concert."

"But it's to fund the hospital for the war injuries!" Sybil says, as they reach Mr. Carson's room. "Please, Mary?"

"No," she says curtly. "There's…" She trails off and both girls draw up short at the horrifying sight before them.

The bed is empty.

"No!" It's almost a cry. This can't be happening, he was fine yesterday, he's been moved to a different room, anything to explain—

"Ralph!" Sybil snaps. The janitor looks up and just nods once, sadly. "When?" she demands.

"Last night, I heard," says the custodian. "It's a shame. Charlie, he knew how to get things done right. He'd complain whenever someone didn't clean his nightstand properly. Used to work in one of the big houses out in the country, you know."

"But how?"

"Cardiac arrest," says a new voice, and the doctor walks in, scribbling on a chart (her white coat is monogrammed, but neither sister thinks to read the name).

Sybil sighs and shakes her head, her gaze darting rapidly between the custodian and her sister. "I suppose we all knew it was coming."

"You—couldn't revive him?" Mary chokes out, unable to look anywhere except the vacant bed.

"Sometimes we can," the doctor replies, finally glancing up from her clipboard. She stops suddenly, staring at the two of them in disbelief. "Is that you, Mary? Sybil?"

It's a moment before Mary turns to face the woman and recognizes the harassed countenance, the determined features, the pale brown hair frizzing out of the severe bun. "Isobel?"

"Did you know Mr. Carson?" Isobel sets the papers down with practised ease and peels off her gloves.

"I—only for a short while," she says. The awkwardness hardly registers with her—it really should be uncomfortable, given that she hasn't said a word to Isobel for nearly two years, and the fact that they parted on unpleasant terms.

"Pity," the older woman says sympathetically. "We all liked him. He was a good man."

"Why couldn't you—"

"Why couldn't we save him?" Isobel's breath is laboured from exhaustion. "You know, we all hope that we can save each and every patient that comes through here. But the fact is, we lose every single one eventually. In his case—well, I'm just glad that we could make him as comfortable as possible."

"He was on meds," Sybil adds. It's meant to be reassuring, but somehow it doesn't quite have the desired effect. "He probably couldn't feel a thing."

"Of course he felt something," Mary says angrily. "He _died_, of course he felt—"

"Actually, no," Isobel interjects. "We had him on a rigourous dosage of sedatives last night. He wouldn't have—"

"Is that why he died?" Mary is suddenly aware of the disconnected IV, which is still dangling from the pole on the side of Carson's bed. "Why else would his heart just…give out?"

"Of course not," Isobel retorts, trying to keep her voice as gentle as possible. "We had his levels carefully monitored, and it's fairly common. Especially for a man of ninety-three."

But there has to be someone to blame for this, surely—Mary turns on her heel and stalks down the hall to the nurses' station.

"You." She's shaking all over as she points to a woman in scrubs. "You were assigned to Charles Carson."

The nurse raises an eyebrow. "Three-oh-eight?"

"He had a name, you know," she snarls. "Mr. Charles Carson."

"I'm sure he did, I—"

"Did you know he went into cardiac arrest? Or were you out for a cup of coffee and didn't bother to check back until it was too late?" She's positively incensed by now. Each step forward she takes produces a clicking noise on the linoleum, almost like a countdown on a bomb.

"Of course I didn't," the nurse says. She's calm. Too calm.

"Or did you fall asleep?" Seething to the point of inarticulateness, she reaches blindly for the next weapon in her small arsenal. "Do you even feel anything? Your patient just _died_—"

"Please try to calm down, miss," says the woman, as Sybil clatters down the hall, flushed and fretful.

"Mary—sit," she orders, pointing to a chair.

Her sister just glares back. Her eyes speak volumes—she's not taking orders from anyone, and she's _definitely_ not sitting down.

Sybil bites her lip. "Fine. But listen to me. This isn't anyone's fault. It _happens._"

"I know it happens," she says, as childish as a pretentiously prissy doll.

"No, but you don't understand. This happens _every day. _ You've just been lucky enough not to deal with it yet—"

"Just how naïve do you think I am?" she demands.

"I'm not saying you're naïve," Sybil argues. "I'm just saying that—"

"Good."

"—someone passing on is unfortunate but…not uncommon."

Mary glances back to Room 308 with damp eyes. "Carson didn't deserve it," she says simply, and turns on her heel.

She never wants to set foot in a hospital again.

Sybil sighs as her sister disappears down the hall. She's exhausted. It's not the first patient she's seen die, but it's _Carson._

Her mobile lights up in her pocket, buzzing furiously like one of those massage chairs. She jabs the screen ferociously and lifts it to her ear. "Hello?" she snaps.

Tom Bellasis' voice rumbles in her ear. "Where are you? We were supposed to meet the guys at the café."

Damn. She lets out a long breath. "I'm sorry. I'm at the hospital. Go on ahead without me."

"But—"

"I'm tired," she snarls. "Go."

"You said you'd come," he says, and suddenly her wonderful boyfriend sounds like a whiny and insensitive pest.

"You'll have to go without me, Tom. I can't come."

"But you _said_—"

"I have a shift here until two. I simply can't. I'm sorry." She doesn't quite mean it.

Tom is quiet for a moment. "All right. I—"

"I'll see you later," she mutters, and clicks off the phone. The harsh scent of the hospital burns her nose, but she trudges off down the hall. She's needed here.

* * *

"Thanks for coming," Sybil shouts over the deafening surges of traffic. She slams the car door shut behind her and wearily tosses her purse onto the seat.

"No problem," Branson says, as he floors the accelerator and the cab flies onto the thoroughfare. "Business is slow today."

"Do you expect me to pay you?"

"Obviously."

She snorts, but her eyes are twinkling. "I left my credit card at home. Sorry."

Branson smiles. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to get out of the cab, _milady_," he quips, taking a sharp turn. The car strains, and Sybil sits back in her seat, crossing her arms.

"Not a chance, Mr. Branson," she replies.

"Where to?"

"Anywhere," she says. "But you have to come with me."

He fights back a chuckle. "Are you sure about that?"

"No."

"Good." He yanks the steering wheel to the right, sending the cab squealing into a U-turn. "I know just the place."

The Irish pub is dark, dank, and unusually quiet (well, it _is_ mid-afternoon, after all). There are a few drunkards slumped at the bar with tankards of pure alcohol, but almost no one is sitting at the tables. Sybil slumps into a corner booth and expertly waves down the waitress. "Chips," she says, and then buries her face in her hands.

"Er…" Tom hesitates. "Just water for me."

The server nods and retreats.

Tom fidgets, his leg shaking under the table. "So—what's happened?"

"Do you remember the patient I was telling you about?"

"Which one?"

"Geriatrics," Sybil says.

"Mr. Carson," he recalls. "Why? What happened to him?"

"He's dead." She states it flatly, simply, as if that can ease the pain. "Mary's taking it badly."

"What about you?"

"It's just so sad." She wills the tears not to come—it's too humiliating. But they free-fall down her face anyway. "They keep saying I'll get used to it, because it happens pretty much every day, but—"

"It's right of you to mourn him."

"I just don't know if I'm cut out for this!" She tugs at her hair, and is dangerously close to ripping some of it out. "I _want_ to be a nurse, but if this happens every time I lose a patient—"

His hand over her restless fingers effectively stops her soliloquy before it even truly gets started. "Don't ruin your hair."

"Don't badger me," she retorts, through her fading tears.

Tom gently lowers their entwined hands to the tabletop. "If you don't pull out your hair."

Sybil gives him a watery smile. "I—" she begins, but just then her mobile goes off again.

It's the other Tom.

"Sorry," she mumbles, and starts to fish in her bag for the phone.

* * *

May 2012

Her flatmate has been either keeping busy or burrowing herself away in her room, by turns, for the last few weeks. The therapist could really do her some good.

Mr. Bates had been very good-natured about the whole ordeal. Anna tries not to flush as she thinks of him. He was so very kind, and understanding, everything that she looks for in someone—and hasn't found, not yet anyway. But she knows he's a good therapist.

She decides to ring him when she gets back to the flat.

_Beep._ "Um, hi," she says, awkwardly pacing the room. "This is Anna Smith. I called, a few weeks ago, to set up an appointment for my friend. I think she really does need your help, even though I know it's unorthodox to have me call it in, so if you'd be so kind as to return the call, that would be great. Er—thank you in advance, Mr. Bates."

She clicks the little red button and lets out a long sigh.

* * *

Sybil brings a fresh tray into the room, saying nothing to its occupant, who is sitting up in bed flicking through the telly channels.

"Miss?" the man asks. He's perhaps thirty, but she knows he is on the verge of being placed in a nursing home. He probably will be, after he's discharged.

"Yes?" she replies. Her voice is steely.

"Would you—bring the doctor?" he says, and she whips around immediately to face him.

"If something's wrong, you should press the call button," Sybil admonishes, punching the little red button. "What is it? Is it your hand again?"

"I—it's—" The patient holds up his right arm, which is starting to spasm ever so slightly.

"The doctor will be right here," she promises, trying to reassure him by fiddling needlessly with the blankets. "We'll fix it right up."

"Oh, God," he moans. "It's—argh—!"

Sybil blanches, as the man starts to twist in agony. She hurries to the door and sticks her head out into the hall. "We need a doctor here!" she yells, and then turns back to the bed. "It'll be fine. Just try to relax." She takes the man's other hand and squeezes it, firmly. "Just don't freak out. It exacerbates the pain."

"Fuck you," the man manages to snarl. "You don't know shit, little girl."

She releases his hand, but doesn't back down any further. "It'll be all right."

The door whooshes open and all of a sudden someone in a white coat is striding in, taking hold of the man's arm and jabbing a syringe into it.

"Sybil!" the woman barks over the noise of the patient cursing. "Brace his arm."

Without thinking, she rushes to the other side of the bed and places her nimble hands over the man's arm, feeling it pulse under her fingers, stiffening. The doctor presses the plunger and slowly, the man goes still and his eyes fall shut.

She exhales in relief as she releases his arm. The doctor starts to scribble illegibly on the chart. "Hello, Sybil," she says.

"Dr. Crawley." She brushes her hand over her brow. "Thank you."

"It's my job," Isobel replies, glancing at her watch before noting the time on the paper and holding out the syringe to Sybil. "Would you throw this out?"

"Sure." She takes a quivering breath and pulls on a pair of blue gloves before picking up the needle. "I didn't know what to do," she admits. "I didn't have the slightest clue what to do."

"That wasn't supposed to happen," Isobel says. "He wasn't supposed to relapse. You couldn't have known."

"But I feel like I should have." Sybil tosses the syringe into the biohazard receptacle, still trying to get her breath back. "I'm just so useless, sometimes."

"Are you doing pre-med?" Isobel asks, putting the chart on its hook and turning to fully face her. "Because if you are, then—"

"I'm not doing pre-med." She squares her shoulders defiantly. "They're such a competitive lot—I don't want to be a part of that."

Isobel nods, understandingly. "They can be a bit…overly ambitious," she says.

"But I'll take the classes required to become a nurse. That's what I really want to do."

"That's admirable."

She crosses her arms. "But I can't _do_ anything here! I'm just another candy striper, and all I can do is bring drinks to a bunch of randy men and watch as they die."

"That's not true. You're very helpful," Isobel says earnestly, but she pauses. "I could get you into a nursing course if you wanted. You wouldn't have to necessarily complete university, but you could become a registered nurse."

Sybil shrugs her shoulders. "I could, I suppose."

"Give it some thought, then," Isobel says, whipping off her nitrile gloves and discarding them in one swift motion, and Sybil copies her. "That would really be wonderful. Being a medical professional—well, if you love what you do, it's a joy."

"I…"

There's a shrill scream from down the hall. Isobel rushes almost instinctively towards the sound, Sybil following in confusion. "What's happened?" she demands of a floundering nurse.

"Eight months pregnant woman visiting her father," the nurse says quickly, rattling the words off faster than she can really handle, and she starts to stammer. "H—her—her water's just broken and she's saying she can already see the head."

"But obstetrics is in the other ward," Sybil says. She can feel a slight sweat breaking out over her forehead.

"Not to worry," Isobel replies, completely calm. "Come."

"But what…?"

"If she cannot make it over to the other ward then we will have to do something about it _here_," Isobel says decidedly. "I did a rotation in the OBGYN unit during medical school, I think I know the basics."

* * *

Mary returns to the flat after her final exam, exhausted, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed and sleep until tomorrow.

Instead she finds Anna sitting on the couch next to a man who can only be the therapist.

"Hello, Anna," she says, dropping her purse onto the table and removing a bottle of water from the refrigerator. (What she really wants is something with alcohol, but she doesn't think it's the best idea to pull that out in front of the shrink.)

"This is Mr. Bates," Anna says, getting to her feet.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Bates," Mary replies airily, already bound for her room.

"If you'd like to have a chat, we can," Bates says. His balding head is reflecting the lamplight. "But we don't have to."

"I'll take a pass for today, sorry."

Anna glares at her. "I think Mary's a bit tired," she says, like a mother justifying her screaming baby.

"It's all right," Mr. Bates says, and takes a sip of his tea. "I can wait while she has a rest."

Mary narrows her eyes, bristling at the audacity. "It's likely to be awhile, and I wouldn't want to trouble you."

"I can wait." Mr. Bates leans back into the couch. "I've got all afternoon. If that's all right, of course," he says to Anna.

Anna nods. "Of course."

"So take your time," he says.

With an exaggerated sigh, Mary stalks into her room, determined to wait it out. To her dismay, she can hear Anna giggling nervously and a chuckle from Bates. She slams the door shut behind her, wondering what Carson would have said to do.

She lays herself on the bed and stares up at the ceiling. Carson is dead, and Matthew is missing. Dead and missing. She knows that any day now, she could receive word and then they'll both be dead.

For once, Mary Crawley is forced to cling to hope with one hand, as if she's holding onto the highest ladder rung.

* * *

"Argh!" the woman screams as they ease her onto a hospital bed in the nearest room.

"Get an obstetrician over here _right now_," Isobel commands. "Sybil! Go!"

She rushes over to the nurses' station, blood pounding in her ears as she almost slips on the slick tiles, but recovers. The pregnant woman's shrieks echo through the corridors, and she can see the nurses looking up in confusion. "Woman in labour, fully dilated, three-oh-eight, need an oh-bee-gyn," she blurts, panting, and blonde Bertha in the green scrubs picks up the telephone and starts dialing.

The other Bertha, who is older and wearing blue scrubs, shepherds Sybil to a chair in the waiting area. "All right, get some rest now," she says.

"Won't they need me?"

"You?" Bertha In Blue raises her eyebrows. "In a delivery? I don't think so."

"But—"

"You don't really want to see that, do you?"

"I _want_ to be useful!" Sybil protests. "Can't I do something?"

"Go to college," the nurse replies, and then she's gone. Sybil has nothing left to do but sit back in her chair with the rest of the waiting relatives, like she's just a visitor instead of a volunteer.

She hates it.

So she gets to her feet, locks herself in the loo, and calls Tom.

He answers his phone on the second ring. "Lady Sybil?" he mocks, and she chuckles. Classic.

"Where are you?" she asks, starting to pace in circles around the private bathroom.

"At a taxi stand. You?"

"Hospital." She holds the mobile to her ear with her shoulder and starts to scrub her hands in the sink. "Some woman just went into labour in Carson's old room."

"Bloody hell," he mutters. "Couldn't they move her?"

"She was way too far along." Sybil starts to dry her hands with a flimsy piece of paper towel. "And they kicked me out."

"_What_?" Tom's roguish voice is just the right amount of indignant.

"I know." She tosses the crumpled towel into the bin from across the small room. "It isn't like I can't handle it."

The line falls silent. She stops her pacing and stares at herself in the mirror. Her blue eyes are a little watery.

"So…" Tom says. "Do you want to go for dinner or something? Get a few drinks, forget about this shit."

Sybil sighs. "Can't," she says.

"Oh."

The ensuing hush is awkward enough to cause her hand to involuntarily float up to her tied-back hair and tighten the ribbon. She glances at her reflection again. "You know what?" she says finally. "Sod that. You free at seven?"

"Yeah," he answers, and then there's a muffled shuffling sound from his end. "Listen, I've got to go. I'll see you later."

She smiles when she hears him ask his next customer, "Where to?" before cutting the connection.

Now all she has to do is tell the _other_ Tom, the Bellasis boy, that she won't be showing up for their dinner date, and that she's had enough of their relationship. This, she tells herself, she will have to do in person.

And he might just fly off the handle.

* * *

"Tea?" Bellasis asks, as his high-tech kettle starts to steam.

"No…" She remains standing in his kitchen, tapping her fingers on the granite counter. "Look. Tom…I think we need to talk."

He glances up, a few strands of shaggy hair falling over his forehead. "Yeah?"

"I…" Sybil clears her throat. She's not entirely sure how to say it, so she goes for the cliché. "It's not you, it's me, it…"

"Ah." He places both of his big hands on the countertop. "That line."

"What line?"

"_It's not you, it' s me..._So this is it, huh?"

She looks into his dark, warm, disappointed brown eyes and almost falters. But not quite. "This is it."

"Why?"

It's such a simple question. She frowns. "I don't know, exactly."

"Is it that cabbie? Branson?"

"No," she says immediately. "We're just _friends,_ that's all."

"Uh-huh." Bellasis shrugs. "Whatever you say. I'm going to miss you, Sybil."

"I'm sorry." She fumbles with the zip of her jacket, but manages to fasten it around her throat. "I wish we could've—"

"I know." He sighs as the kettle clicks off of its own accord. "See you around."

"See you," she mumbles, and then flees from his flat.

* * *

Compared with Bellasis, it's so easy talking with Branson. With the former, it's like she's trying to compose an essay and can only hand in the final draft—it's so hard to come up with anything to _say_.

But with the latter, she can talk about anything. She can spew random shit and he'll laugh, or smile, or grimace in just the right way. So that's what she does.

She mentions the man with PTSD and the psychosomatic arm, and then the woman who went into labour, Bertha in Green, Bertha in Blue. But never Mary. She's her sister, and that's reason enough for Sybil to keep her mouth shut.


	8. Chapter 7: Home

_Compared with Bellasis, it's so easy talking with Branson. With the former, it's like she's trying to compose an essay and can only hand in the final draft—it's so hard to come up with anything to say._

_But with the latter, she can talk about anything. She can spew random shit and he'll laugh, or smile, or grimace in just the right way. So that's what she does._

_She mentions the man with PTSD and the psychosomatic arm, and then the woman who went into labour, Bertha in Green, Bertha in Blue. But never Mary. She's her sister, and that's reason enough for Sybil to keep her mouth shut._

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Home**

June 2012

Richard's face is pink in the dancing coloured light as he pushes the glass towards her. "Hey," he says, and her eyes snap open.

"What?" Her voice is slurring. A Maroon 5 song blasts through the speakers behind the bar, and she's reminded vaguely of something, some other time, some other night.

"Your phone." He's almost shouting over the music as he points.

Mary lifts her arm, feeling slight resistance from her too-tight leather jacket when she twists to reach into her purse to silence it. "So what are you proposing?" she says. Annoyingly, her mobile buzzes again, and she near-punches the screen. "Your parents wouldn't like me, I'm—I'm a posh…" she trails off as the phone trills and a text pops up. "I'm sorry."

"Sure," Richard replies, and waves down the bartender.

"Hello?"

Sybil's voice crackles over the line. "You have to come to the hospital."

"Darling, I'm out."

"But there's a wounded soldier."

She's never tried, but she knows that any hospital room will bring back memories of Carson. And has Sybil gone mad? A wounded soldier will send her over the edge, if she isn't already gone.

There's a lengthy pause. Mary is throwing back another gulp of alcohol when Sybil clears her throat.

"He's from Matthew's unit."

The liquid spews from Mary's mouth right back into the glass she'd taken it from, leaving a burning ache in the back of her throat. "What?" she sputters. "What did you say?"

"He was with the Duke of Manchester's Own," Sybil says. "That's all they know."

"How can they not know who it is?" She's already down from the barstool and flinging the purse over her shoulder.

All she can hear is the din from the club, because her sister seems to have gone silent. She isn't even aware that Richard has gotten to his feet.

"Sybil!" she yells. "_Tell me why they don't know!"_

"They don't know because…he's…well, unconscious, but they're waiting for DNA tests and—"

"Why couldn't they just look at his face?" Her voice is breaking. She knows why, she can already tell, but—

"You'd better get over here, Mary," Sybil says dully, and then there's a click as she hangs up.

"I have to go," Mary says lamely to Richard.

"What?" he says, with concern.

"It's…nothing." And with that, she strides out the door and hurries to hail a cab. She has a faint idea of what it might be, but it can't be happening that way—soldiers are supposed to come back in one piece, she thinks, on a white horse like in the fairy stories. That's what was supposed to happen to Matthew.

* * *

She arrives to a bustling ward. It's all a giant swish of hospital uniforms and sterile equipment, blurry and disorienting.

"He's being flown in," Sybil says hurriedly as she pulls her sister aside. "Whoever he is…they know he's British, he's been captured by a terrorist camp and they've only found him recently, with no form of identification. He's alive, but there are serious injuries and—"

"Could it be him?" Mary can feel that she's shivering. "Should someone tell Lavinia?"

"Poor girl," Sybil says. "She…I don't see a reason to worry her. Not until we know it's him."

"But is it him?"

Sybil just shakes her head. "We'll know more tomorrow. After the tests come back."

"Sybil!" a doctor calls, waving her over. "I want Room Six-oh-seven ready to go in five minutes."

"I want to help, too," Mary offers. She knows that her clothing is far too daring for a hospital ward, her hair is mussed, and that her makeup is probably smeared, but she doesn't care.

The doctor sighs audibly. "I can't allow you to do that, miss—"

"I think you can," she retorts. "If I know him—"

"We don't know the identity of the patient," the doctor says. "I can't let you into the intensive care unit unless we're sure that it really is him."

"You have your volunteers," Mary says, her voice gaining anger with each stressed syllable. "I'm a volunteer."

"But—"

Just then, another doctor marches down the hall. Her face is set. "Clarkson!" she barks.

He whips around almost automatically. "Doctor Crawley," he says with a small nod.

"I hope you won't mind if I sit in on the new arrival," Isobel says. "The soldier?"

"It's…not protocol." Clarkson hesitates.

"Is anything ever done according to protocol?" Mary says.

Isobel gives her a grateful smile. "My thoughts exactly."

He pauses. All three women watch expectantly. "Oh, all right, Doctor," he concedes, but then he rounds on Mary. "You stay out of this, young lady. Is that understood?"

"I'll keep her out of the room, Doctor Clarkson," Sybil says, and the doctor nods in curt reluctance before striding off, with Isobel behind him.

"I'm not leaving," Mary says.

"Of course you aren't," Sybil replies, flashing the smallest of smiles.

* * *

The soldier in six-oh-seven looks as dead as any corpse in the morgue downstairs—he's completely limp, his uniform ripped in the places where his wounds have been treated. He's intubated, which is frankly uncomfortable to look at.

Mary doesn't cry. She refuses to be led out, just stands unnoticed in the corner with Sybil as the doctors order a change of bandages over the man's face.

And now she knows why they can't identify him.

Where the soldier's face once stood, there is now only a bloody garbled mess. Sybil averts her eyes, but Mary watches the entire process as the gloved hands carefully clean the wounds and replace the bandages. Isobel, for her part, seems perfectly collected.

"This is infected," Clarkson says grimly, pointing to a deep gash on the man's leg. It's dark, nearly oozing grimy purple.

Mary has never wanted to throw up more in her life. But she doesn't.

"Before it goes septic, pump in antibiotics," Isobel commands. "What opiate do they have him on?"

"Morphine, ma'am," someone says.

"I want him on maximum dosage."

Clarkson turns to the soldier's damaged arm. "When was this set?"

"Yesterday, sir."

Doctor Clarkson scowls. "It's crooked. We'll have to reset later. Nurse?"

"Yes, doctor," chirps a short blonde woman, who is cleaning the dirt from the man's leg.

"Get the lab to expedite the DNA test. The sooner we let his family know, the better."

Mary swallows hard. She feels as though she is looking at the fallen soldier through a veil of ignorance and innocence, almost like she is drugged, not quite able to comprehend what has happened.

And with a slice of fabric, Clarkson snatches away the veil. "Did no one check the genitals?" he demands, and the room falls silent as he takes off the trousers of the uniform.

This time, Mary has to look away. She buries her face in her hands as the crash of pain hits her. The cold, harsh sound of scissors and ripping gauze and the smell of bubbling disinfectant paint the picture perfectly in her mind's eye, and she wishes that she could just be numb and be rid of all feeling as she hears Isobel give the smallest of gasps.

"Bruising," Clarkson says darkly.

Mary cringes. When she finally dares to look up again, there is a blanket draped over the man for the sake of decency, and a terrifying number of bandages taped over his body.

"What is she doing here?" Clarkson's almost shouting as he points to Mary. "Get her out—out!"

She fights back. There is a rustle of hospital-issued polyester and masked faces (Isobel?) saying, "Go on, now", and then she's on the other side of the door.

* * *

When they finally let her into the room an hour later (after much arguing), the nurses and the doctors have cleared out and left the soldier in the care of a hundred beeping machines, Sybil, and Isobel.

"How is he?" Mary says quietly through the mask that they've given her.

"All right, for now," Sybil answers, her voice muffled. She twists her hands together and drops into a chair. "We'll know more in the morning. The tests are due back by seven tomorrow."

"So we don't know who he is."

"We don't."

Mary sighs audibly. "He doesn't look anything like Matthew," she whispers.

"He doesn't look like much of anything," Sybil replies. "Thank God for DNA tests."

"I don't know whether to hope this is him," Mary admits. Her hands are shaking as she reaches out to steady herself. "He's alive, isn't he? But he's also…well…like this."

"He's alive, that's the important thing," Isobel says. It seems as if they have signed a makeshift truce for now—all that is in the past, and it's completely irrelevant at this point.

"Yes." Mary nods slowly. "Yes, if he's alive—that's good enough for now."

When she goes up to his bed, careful not to trip on any of the wires that run across the floor, she says, "It's him."

"What?" Sybil leaps to her feet. "How—?"

"On his hand," Mary says, pointing. She's talking at the pace of a sprint and only getting faster. "It's definitely him, definitely. In twenty-ten, when you were attacked, Sybil, that man almost bit his finger off. You were half-conscious, you wouldn't remember—but that's him, that's the scar. I know it is."

"Mary," Isobel says gently. "Any soldier could have…burned himself with gunpowder, or—it could be anything."

"It's him," she says. "I know it is." She knows she sounds almost delusional. With a tremblingly light touch, she brushes back a matted piece of greying blond hair from his closed, battered eyes.

Matthew's mother clears her throat and Mary retracts her hand before anyone can so much as blink.

* * *

Anna brings her a change of clothes, and Mary falls asleep sitting up in the corner of his hospital room after eating several bags of crisps. The chair is uncomfortable, hard and unforgiving whenever she shifts, but she's so tired that it really doesn't matter.

She watches the lifeless man for awhile, sure that it's him, but eventually her eyes tune out and she's stuck in her mind, trying not to remember.

_Anna is practically skipping next to her, still filled with youthful excitement at graduating from the sixth form. Mary, on the other hand, just trudges along gloomily. She doesn't really feel like shopping for shoes. In fact, she'd rather sit at home and do nothing until the end of the summer, when she'll be forced out of the house to start at university._

_"Cheer up," Anna says, as she tries to fit a size 40 shoe onto her left foot. "Try those. The navy ones over there."_

_"Don't feel like it." Mary shrugs. "I'll try them on if you try those." She's pointing to a horrible pair of high peep-toes in a garish shade of pink, and Anna can't help but laugh. _

_"You try them."_

_"There's no way in hell," Mary replies, snorting a little. _

_Anna yanks harder on the strap of the uncooperative shoe. "It's—too—tight," she says through gritted teeth. _

_"Try a bigger size."_

_"My feet aren't that big," Anna protests. _

_Mary sighs. She can't help but think of something he'd said to her once—"My brain isn't _that_ small, you know"—and now she's right back where she started. Moping like a forlorn sheep. _

"Tests are in," Sybil says wearily. Her hair is a fright, but not too bad considering that she's spent the last twelve hours in a dazed flurry of activity.

Mary is on her feet in less than an instant (God, her shoes are so loud), even though her back protests with a vengeance and she nearly doubles over from the ache. "And? Did they say? What did they say?"

"They said…" Sybil's face breaks into a muted smile. "It's him after all. He's home now."

* * *

Of course, Lavinia has to be told. Sybil gnashes her teeth bitterly as she tries to shepherd her sister from the room. "Come on," she encourages, picking up Mary's purse for her and starting towards the door. "You need rest."

"I'm not leaving," Mary says.

There's a strained pause. Isobel blinks.

"Lavinia's coming," Sybil admits, taking a cautious, infinitesimal step forward.

"Good," her sister mutters, but she doesn't move. "She should know."

Sybil gives the doctor a fleetingly desperate look, before she turns back to Mary. "Don't you want to sleep, or something? We'll be watching him."

"I—"

"Yes," Sybil declares, her voice firm as she takes in the near-deranged appearance of her sister. "Yes, you do."

"But he shouldn't be left alone."

"He won't be," Isobel reassures her, patting her son's hand protectively. "Not for a second."

"I'll stay until she gets here," Mary says, unflinching even as the gauze draped over him starts to turn a delicate shade of pink.

Sybil and Isobel exchange a knowing glance. Silently, the three of them watch the machines spew out graphs, clicking and beeping. The minutes whirl by, painfully slowly, until they turn into hours.

They're all thinking the same thing. _Where's Lavinia?_

* * *

Edith is on her laptop when she gets another sobbing phone call from the girl who is, sadly, one of her few friends.

"B-but he's injured," Lavinia explains, weeping, and she sniffs. Edith winces at the sound of snot, typing _be right back_ into the message field.

"Then go to him," she encourages, gently.

"They say his face isn't—isn't recognisable." It's said in almost a whisper.

"All the same, go and see him. He's home, and he's alive."

Lavinia snuffles again. "I don't know if it'll be all right."

"Of course it will."

"Promise?"

Edith bites her lip. "Promise," she says. There's a click in her ear, and then she goes right back to messaging Anthony Strallan.

* * *

Lavinia's face is completely stricken when she arrives in the intensive care unit. The sheer number of doctors and nurses is overwhelming. Everyone seems to be wearing a surgical mask, and some are wearing scrubs. She feels so out of place in her normal clothes as she goes to the desk to ask where she can find Room 607.

"Down the hall to the right, on the left," the receptionist says. Her voice is bland, like the cereal that Lavinia eats every day for breakfast.

"Thank you," she murmurs, and then proceeds to follow those exact instructions.

The heels of her Mary Jane shoes click hollowly on the floor as she checks the plaque next to each room. When she finds six-oh-seven she takes a deep breath and turns the handle.

Three women sitting in the stiff-backed chairs each have their heads bent in silent prayer. The two dark-haired ones she recognizes as two of the Crawley sisters, and the other woman is Isobel.

But the man lying in the bed is unrecognisable.

She lets out a sob before she can help it. "Oh, my God," she whispers. The grotesque bundle of bandages pulses ever so slightly as the pain waves through him. "Oh, my _God._"

"Lavinia," Isobel says. Her voice does not quiver in the least. "I realize that this must be hard for you, but you have to be strong."

She nods, gulping, and tries to put on a brave face. Mary proffers a box of tissues, but she brushes it away. She isn't crying.

"I'll give you a moment," Isobel murmurs, and walks out the door, cocking her head ever so slightly, a wordless indication that Mary and Sybil should follow.

After a fraction of an instant's hesitation, they both lift themselves from their chairs in a dignified way and sweep through the door.

Lavinia drops into the chair his mother recently vacated. _Beep. Beep. Beep._ The machines sound oddly like her mobile phone. "Matthew?" she whispers. "Can you hear me?"

There's no response except for the whooshing sound that is coming through the tube in his throat.

"Maybe not," she murmurs, and bites her lip nervously. "I don't think so. But—" She takes out her old, battered iPod Touch, and unlocks it by pressing the passcode with trembling fingers. "Listen."

_If it takes my whole life_

_I won't break, I won't bend_

_It'll all be worth it_

_Worth it in the end_

_Cause I can only tell you what I know_

_That I need you in my life_

_And when the stars have all gone out_

_You'll still be burning so bright_

"They have him under sedation," says a quiet voice from the door. Isobel is standing just outside, watching. "He won't wake until they want him to."

"Oh." Lavinia nods, once, and quickly presses the pause button. "Of course, anyone with half a brain would've realized."

"It's all right," Isobel says. "Would you like something to eat? The cafeteria is just downstairs."

"I'll—no, I'm fine, thanks," she replies, reaching into her purse for a bottle of water.

"All right." Isobel takes a seat beside her. "He _will_ live, you know."

"I know."

"Good."

* * *

Lavinia retreats after maybe half an hour, muttering something about food and having to go to the loo.

Finding her way back to his side is easy for once, Mary thinks, as she resumes her vigil. Her caking eye makeup tickles at her eyelids.

Isobel flutters about, making sure that his IV is still running smoothly, and checking his charts every other minute. Meanwhile, Sybil has finally dozed off in the corner of the room, drained and weary.

And then, finally, Mary's mobile emits a series of shrill ringing noises. She is just about to click it off when she sees the number.

"Excuse me," she says, and goes out into the waiting area so as not to let her phone interfere with equipment. She clicks redial and the other person picks up on the next ring.

"Hello," Richard says. "Where the hell did you get to? I've been trying to call."

"I'm…at the hospital," she replies, haltingly. "Why?"

"I was going to invite you for coffee. Are you…sick?"

"No. God, no. I'm visiting."

"Guess you can't come, then." He coughs on the other end, and she flinches. God, she would give anything to take her mind off of this disaster and get a good cup of coffee instead of the crap that they have at the hospital. And it isn't as if Matthew is alone.

"Maybe later," she replies, and clicks off the phone, turning round to go back into the room. But she stops when she sees Isobel emerge from the door.

"Perhaps it would be best if you went home," Matthew's mother says quietly.

Mary feels her face lock into a tepid smile. "Really, it's nothing."

"My dear girl, it's the very opposite of nothing."

She shakes her head. "I can't leave," she says, her voice breaking in desperation (she tells herself it's because she's dehydrated).

* * *

It is exactly two days before they let him wake up. The first person he sees is his mother. The next, Lavinia. And, at long last, when the fuss has died down and everyone's gone for a bite to eat, another figure appears in the doorway.


End file.
